


love always wakes the dragon

by theyarenotfree



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Office, Angst, CEO Derek Hale, Deception, Frottage, M/M, Secret Identity, Seduction, Smut, Undercover, WIP, con artist stiles stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 57,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24344743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyarenotfree/pseuds/theyarenotfree
Summary: Stiles knows he is good at his job. He can lie and seduce and con with the best of them. Don't get him wrong—under no circumstances did he expect this to be an easy mission. Derek Hale, though. Derek Hale might just ruin him. Utterly and completely ruin him.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 80
Kudos: 135





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this months ago and i'm only posting it bc i'm a little tipsy right now and also i need the motivation to actually finish writing it
> 
> title might change but is currently from "Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out" by richard siken
> 
> based off the TV show imposters!!!

**Westbrook, Connecticut**

Stiles is late. His flight was delayed and then he spent a ridiculous amount of time waiting to pick up his stuff at the baggage check. By the time he hails a cab to take him to Bumfuck, Connecticut, he is tired, hungry and not at all prepared for the neck-wringing Lydia is sure to give him when he gets there.

The scenery outside the smudged taxi window is all rundown ocean-side town. It’s nostalgic and lazy, with its abundance of seafood bar & grills and rusty old trucks. He should get some fresh crab while he’s in the area. He’s not a big seafood guy but crab is pretty safe and probably delicious here. Maybe he’ll get crab cakes, just in case. Stiles’ phone buzzes. He flips it open without looking at the number—it’s one of three people and he’s got a very good idea who would be pissed and impatient enough to call him right now.

“I’m almost there,” he sighs, forgoing a greeting. He pulls his beanie down farther over his head. He’s only a little insecure about the new buzzcut. It’s too much like the look he used to go for back in high school. Also, Stiles will stand by the fact that he has a weird shaped forehead. Maybe if he could experiment with some facial hair it would tone down the whole overgrown toddler thing he has going on, but clean shaven was a direct order from The Boss. At least he’s not being forced to go blond again. Boy, was that the most traumatizing eleven months of his life.

“I figured you’d say that.” It’s Scott, which is a relief. That means Lydia probably isn’t angry enough yet to resort to pestering him herself. Only angry enough to get Scott to do it for her.

“Buy an ice cream for me, I’ve had a nightmare of a day.”

“As if. I bet you slept the whole flight.” It was worth a shot. Stiles is nothing if not an opportunist.

“Whatever. Just tell Lyds to relax. She’ll give herself wrinkles, and then where would we be.”

“Probably dead, weighed down by cinderblocks in the middle of the Atlantic.”

“Old age has made you cynical, Scotty boy.”

“Just get here, dude. And toss the phone. We’re getting new burners.” The line goes dead, which. _Rude_. Stiles rolls his eyes and breaks the flip phone in half with a satisfying _snap_ , ignoring the way the driver looks at him in the rearview mirror. When they pull up to the Dairy Queen, Stiles shoves a fat wad of cash right into his hand and grabs his bags from the trunk himself.

Lydia and Deaton are already seated at the farthest picnic table, glaring and calmly biting into a chocolate dipped cone, respectively. Stiles drags his suitcase through the rocky parking lot and takes a deep breath. They must only be about a quarter mile from the shore—it smells salty and clean. It’s almost reminiscent of home. Or California, rather. Stiles hasn’t lived in California in a long time.

“You couldn’t have let me drop my bags off first?” he whines when he’s within a reasonable distance. He would have screamed it across the parking lot if they weren’t trying to lay low. Undercover, secret identities and all that. They can’t be surprised about the comment—Stiles is at his best when he’s complaining. He’s got a room booked at a nice ass beach hotel nearby until his apartment in the city is ready. He’ll be damned if he’s not gonna milk that for all it’s worth. That means sleeping in, sun bathing, pigging out on all the junk foods.

“You couldn’t have been on time for once in your life?” Lydia shoots back, sharp as ever. She’s not wearing any makeup today and she’s dressed more casual than Stiles has ever seen, a flowy white blouse and jeans. Stiles stumbles, which interrupts his staring. There was a rock in his way, he swears. A very unfortunately placed rock.

“Very smooth,” Deaton comments through a mouthful of ice cream.

Stiles parks his bags off to the side and takes a seat. The table creaks ominously and the dirty umbrella above them wobbles. Stiles doesn’t know who picks these meetup spots, but he wants a word with them.

“Heard you had to cut off your precious locks,” Lydia smirks, eyeing his beanie with interest. She looks far too much like she would love to snatch it off his head, so Stiles puts a wary hand over it. He’s sweating already with the afternoon sun hot on his shoulders, but he’ll sweat through his entire shirt before he lets Lydia mock him for his hair. She seems to have claimed the only spot at the table that is getting any shade. Go figure.

“Yeah, yeah. You’ll just have to wait to see my new look, won’t you,” Stiles says, eyes locking on Deaton’s melty ice cream with only a little bit of jealousy. Okay, maybe a medium amount of jealousy. Overpriced airport trail mix can only fill you up for so long.

Scott drops into the seat next to him, a Blizzard in each hand. Stiles only has to stare at him pleadingly for a few seconds before he caves and slides a Blizzard over with a fond smile.

“Love you,” Stiles swoons through a mouthful. It’s Oreo, yum.

“Hello to you too, man,” Scott jokes, taking his own oversized bite. This is why Scott is Stiles’ favorite.

“Alright, can we speed this up, please. I’ve got a two-hour drive back to New York after this,” Lydia presses, lips pursing in that strict way that only she can pull off. Stiles really doesn’t understand how she can be so hot and scary at the same time.

Deaton hums and pulls a stack of folders out from his bag, dealing them out to everyone. Stiles’ folder is heavy, and he fumbles a bit to avoid spilling ice cream on it. He flips it open to a page with a high-quality photo and a short profile underneath.

“This our mark?” Stiles asks, finger tracing the page. The guy in the photo is undeniably handsome—bold brows, thick lashes framing light greenish eyes, neatly trimmed scruff and a smirk, just barely visible on the corner of his mouth. Damn, maybe this’ll be fun.

“Derek Hale,” Deaton nods, taking a quick lick of his cone before skimming to an already highlighted page in his own folder, “CEO of the family-owned Hale Advertising Company, which has a revenue of about 10 billion a year.” Scott lets out a low whistle at that, eyes still scanning the paper.

“This is a big one, then?” Stiles asks, stuck on the picture of Derek Hale still. He has nervously started picking at the peeling grey paint on the wooden table they’re seated at. It comes off in a satisfying thick strip that he balls up and smushes between his forefinger and thumb.

“Yeah, apparently Hale is a notorious bachelor. He has never been seen seriously dating. But The Boss doesn’t think it’ll be too difficult for you,” Deaton juts his chin out in a little nod of recognition. Stiles sighs, flicks the ball of paint off into the gravel.

“Right.”

Stiles flips through a few more pages. There’s info on the company, backstories for Stiles, Lydia, Scott and Deaton, a fake driver’s license, social security card, and other necessary paperwork. A big envelope in the back has a new iPhone and burner phone, plus a few keys for his apartment. There’s another envelope full of cash and a credit card with his new alias on it. Stiles will never not be impressed with the attention to detail.

“Simon Hayes, huh?” he mutters, thumbing over the name next to his face on the license. He takes another peek inside the folder, “Wait a minute. You two get to keep your first names? How did you manage that?”

Stiles points an accusing finger at Scott and Deaton, eyes bugging dramatically. He’s never mastered the art of responding to an alias as flawlessly as he would respond to his own name. Sue him if he’s a little envious.

“Believe me, if I had any control over the aliases and backstories, I would be more concerned with the fact that you are supposedly my godson,” Deaton teases, smiling serenely from behind what’s left of his cone.

“Ha, hilarious. I’d probably focus on the fact that you’re a fucking veterinarian, though.”

“This is mostly going to be an inside job, though. Getting Hale to really trust you, and all that,” Scott interrupts, shoulder knocking gently into Stiles’ with an encouraging grin, “You shouldn’t even have to bother with us that much.”

“I think he _should_ bother with you two, though,” Lydia speaks up, “I’ve been the assistant for the general manager at Hale Co for almost six months now, and I’ve seen what Derek Hale’s like. There’s no way he’ll fall for anything superficial. He’s too cautious. You need a solid backstory with real people in it. It needs to be as close to genuine as possible.”

“Wait, you’ve interacted with him? Like face-to-face? In person?” Stiles shouldn’t be surprised. He knew Lydia had been canvasing the past few months. Building rapport and setting up the framework for Stiles to come in.

“Only a few times. I’m the assistant for one of the main guys on Hale’s team—Isaac Lahey. I’ve seen what he’s like, though. You’ll need to be more than just a pretty face to catch his interest, Stiles.”

“Why, Lydia, are you calling me pretty?” Stiles flutters his eyelashes and shovels the last of his ice cream into his mouth. It earns him a painful kick to his shin, but he was expecting it. If any of them notice that he’s only trying to mask his nerves, they don’t comment.

-

The beach by his hotel doesn’t get a great view of the sunset, but Stiles still watches the sky turn a burnt orangey pink color from his perch on a pile of rocks. The rocks go out into the water a bit, far enough that a man has sat down at the end with a fishing pole. Stiles is debating whether or not he should take his shoes off and dip his feet in the water. The sun took all the dry heat away and the breeze is already making him shiver, so he isn’t sure.

Someone makes the trek onto the rocks and hovers behind him. Stiles knows that Lydia is probably already back in New York by now, and he watched Scott get on a bus to go do whatever it is he does, so he thinks he knows who it is. He tips his head back until Deaton is visible, standing and staring out into the open water. Stiles studies his upside-down expression for a moment.

“You’re not gonna tell me I should be getting to work, right?” Stiles says, head dropping forward again. He makes an impulsive decision to stick his feet in the water after all.

“I didn’t say anything,” Deaton says, managing to smoothly seat himself on a rock next to Stiles. He’s still looking to the distance.

“Because I read through the file three times. I memorized all my info. I even took notes on the Advertising for Dummies and Marketing for Dummies eBooks I rented.” The water is colder than he thought it’d be. He drops a sock in and has to fish it out before the waves carry it off.

“I didn’t say anything,” Deaton says again. It makes Stiles feel antsy. More antsy than usual, that is.

“Too bad there isn’t a Veterinary Science for Dummies eBook. Or maybe there is. Huh, you should probably look into that. That would probably help you out a lot. Those books have saved my life too many times, man.”

“I did go to medical school, you know.” They sky is turning into a rich purple now, the color bleeding against the ocean so the horizon almost disappears. It looks endless, and calm.

“No,” Stiles drags his toe against a mossy rock, “I didn’t know that.” Stiles doesn’t know anything about any of them. Not really.

Deaton doesn’t say anything, and Stiles is feeling anxious enough to allow the silence. It’s not like he hasn’t led a job like this before. It’s just that this one is big. Like really big. Full-scale and intricate, with complex backstories and months of set-up. Stiles might be Simon Hayes for over a year and a half before he is even able to make an attempt at accessing any accounts. And that’s only if he can get on Derek Hale’s good side.

Stiles almost wants to dig out the burner and call Lydia, force her to reassure him that he can do this and it’ll all work out and Stiles can stop staring at the ocean like some sad old widow. Lydia would never lie to him. But she’s already in New York, which means she’s back to being Lily Whittemore. Lily Whittemore, who is assistant to the general manager at Hale Co and was nice enough to recommend her dear college friend Simon Hayes for an open position on the team. Lily Whittemore, who is probably organized and meticulous and perfect in all the ways that Lydia is, but who Stiles really doesn’t trust not to lie to him. Not the way he trusts Lydia.

“We leave in two days for the big city,” Deaton slips a reassuring hand on Stiles’ shoulder as he stands, “Just take some time to relax, unwind before your interview.”

He takes half a step back, eyes on the sky even still. Deaton has always slipped into other personas like they’re a pair of warm socks, like they are more home to him than his own name and history. He’ll probably never understand the way it terrifies Stiles, the way it makes him more scared than anything of losing himself. Deaton must not have much to lose. Stiles appreciates his sympathy either way. He nods, silent.

Deaton looks at him, then. He’s silhouetted against the darkening sky, sturdy and unruffled in the way that Stiles has always known him to be. “You’re good at what you do, Stiles,” he says. It’s a quiet little statement, but it really is true. It’s nice to be reminded sometimes.

“Thank you,” it comes out sounding surprised, “You—you are too, you know.”

Deaton smiles, walks away. Stiles watches him leave, then he watches the stars come out. He drops his sock in the water again and he lets it go this time.

-

**New York, New York**

Hale Advertising Company is gigantic and all glass, at least from the outside. It’s probably really impressive on its own, but surrounded on all sides by even taller, shiner buildings, it almost goes unnoticed. Well, Stiles definitely doesn’t notice it. Until the second time he walks by.

The whole thing is pretty on par with how the rest of his morning has been going, what with the very confusing subway ride and the crowds of people he’s had to squeeze past. Stepping into the quiet lobby has him feeling like a sigh of relief personified. Simon is from fucking Minnesota. Any natural overwhelmed expressions that cross Stiles’ face can only help his case, probably.

He checks in at the front desk and sticks his cute little visitor sticker on his new tailored suit, resume and necessary paperwork tucked under his arm. The rest of his work clothes closet is secondhand or very discounted, as to be expected from a struggling post-grad guy. Everything was carefully selected and altered himself, with the help of YouTube and a cheap sewing kit. Stiles is good at his job all right.

He follows the directions given from the security guard, riding up the elevator and into another small lobby area. The woman at the desk there tells him to have a seat. The entire building is sleek and cool, with modern finishes and huge windows. There is a quick, familiar clicking of heels rounding the corner that Stiles pretends not to hear.

“Simon!” Lydia calls, red lips stretching into a pretty smile. Her pencil skirt barely slows her down as she hurries to pull him into a hug. Stiles lets himself sink into it, the only thing in this room that he knows.

“Lils,” he sighs fondly when they pull away from each other, “Don’t you look all grown up.”

She smiles even harder, and for a moment she looks like a shark. Stiles lets her drag him deeper into the building, smiling back over his shoulder when she throws out a “thanks, Kira!” to the woman at the desk. This floor looks like mostly high-quality cubicles, a wall of windows on one side and a few empty conference rooms on the other. Towards the back is a big office, made entirely of glass but with all the shades drawn, the door firmly shut.

“Mr. Lahey,” Lydia steps up to a cubicle on the far side. It’s a young guy, all lanky limbs and curly hair. He’s dressed like he’s a manager and he knows it, but when Lydia calls his name he looks up with a kind smile, “This is my friend Simon Hayes, the one who I thought would be a great fit for the spot on the team that Mr. Hale is hoping to fill. Simon, this is Isaac Lahey.”

They shake hands and chat meaninglessly. Stiles pulls out all the stops, going for charming and quick but softening it with a bit of youth. He’s a pro at small talk. Stiles could probably talk himself into or out of just about anything. When he finds out Isaac is a college football fan, he almost sighs in relief. Now that is a subject he could argue about for hours. Stiles and his dad used to bet their buttered rolls on the game every Thanksgiving.

He’s just started to really let his mouth go, teasing Isaac about his love of the University of Nevada in a way that’s probably almost too far, but the guy’s eyes just light up more with each passing second. A tap on his shoulder cuts him off, and Stiles turns to face a pretty blonde woman. She’s clearly pregnant, but still managing to balance in four-inch heels. Lydia is gone, probably bored of the conversation and desperate to update her Google Calendar.

“Simon Hayes, right?” the woman asks, a faintly evil smirk on her face that says she was probably listening to that entire conversation and will either kick Stiles to the curb or embrace him fully into the Hale Co family.

“That’s me,” Stiles smiles, intentionally naïve. This haircut must really be on his side.

“I assumed,” she muses, studying him closely. Stiles thinks she’ll be more difficult than Isaac was.

“Sorry,” he laughs a little, self-deprecating, “Lily set me loose and I tend not to stop talking even on my good days. Feel free to tell me to shut up anytime.”

“Nonsense,” she pushes him toward a group of armchairs in the corner, “Mr. Hale is almost ready for you, please have a seat. I’m Erica, if you need anything.”

He nods a thank you and settles into the chair, eyeing the others at the cubicles. There’s a pretty moderate number of directors or managers who lead certain departments throughout the company, and a few assistants for all of them.

“Sit down, Erica,” Isaac calls out just as she’s turning away from Stiles, “You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”

“I’m not even _that_ pregnant, Lahey. Give it another three months,” she snarks back, swaying her hips dramatically.

“She could probably order me around the entire office wearing eight inch heels no matter how far along she is,” Stiles adds, just because he loves the sound of his own voice. It gets a wicked cackle out of Erica, though, which is amazing.

It gets quiet then, just the occasional phone ringing or quiet mumbling or keys tapping. It’s definitely not Stiles’ scene—the discreet office space. While aesthetically pleasing, it leaves a lot to be desired in terms of external stimuli. Whatever, Stiles can just buy a new pair of headphones and jam out every day. The door to the office opens and stays that way. No one comes out, but there is an expectant call of “Erica.”

She stands from her desk in a nearby cubicle and makes eye contact with Stiles, sending him a smile that’s all smirk but still a little comforting. He must look uneasy. “Mr. Hale is ready for you now, Mr. Hayes.”

“Thank you,” Stiles says, standing and pulling sharply at the hem of his suit jacket until it straightens out. He readjusts his paperwork in the crook of his arm and walks through the open door. Derek Hale is seated behind a large desk, all polished wood and virtually no clutter on top. There’s a closed MacBook, a couple of stiff looking armchairs across from the desk, a couch and a coffee table off to the side, a full bookshelf and a plant—sad and wilting.

The man himself is almost too much to look at. He’s like the photo Stiles had seen, but worse. Worse in so many ways. The photo really couldn’t capture how absolutely brooding his glare is. His eyes are just as green, but they give nothing away. His hair is dark, shiny and carelessly pushed back. The beard seems a little longer, as if he hasn’t trimmed it in a while. It really is intimidating to be in the presence of someone this hot.

“Close the door,” Derek orders as soon as Stiles has approached one of the armchairs. He does an awkward spin so he can backtrack and push it closed. Another spin and he’s facing the desk again, so he holds out a hand steadily.

“Mr. Hale, I’m Simon Hayes.”

Derek doesn’t move to take his hand. He doesn’t even look at it, really. He’s looking at Stiles, eyebrows pulling down and lips pursing in a way that makes Stiles think that the smirk he thought he saw in that photograph was just a camera glitch or something. This guy doesn’t look like he ever smiles. Stiles doesn’t put down his hand, though. He holds it there, hovering between them. He wonders for just a second if he should break the eye contact, but forces himself not to, forces himself to keep up a polite expression. Derek Hale isn’t gonna want just another guy who’ll bow down to his intimidation tactics. He needs someone to challenge him. Hopefully. At least that’s what Stiles has decided, as of twenty seconds ago. He hears Lydia’s voice in his head, _You’ll need to be more than just a pretty face to catch his interest, Stiles._

He wonders if he should speak but thinks not. His hand is still out there, arm starting to ache a bit, going sore on his bicep. Stiles thinks about what he knows about Derek from the file, and what he knows about him from this office and the people he hires and the short amount of time he’s been in his presence.

His heart is speeding up from nerves and he feels the prickle of underarm sweat. Derek hasn’t moved. He doesn’t even look real. Stiles holds the eye contact, hoping with his whole chest that he’s not fucking this up. Stiles wonders what would break Derek.

He makes himself smile, just a bit. Let’s his lips turn up on the sides until it softens, becomes something natural. He’s smiling and Derek is glaring, and he’s actually so impressed with himself that it shocks him when Derek suddenly takes his hand.

It’s an awkward angle, because Derek doesn’t stand. He just leans forward a bit and slides his dry palm against Stiles’, shakes it firmly. Stiles’ smile grows and he doesn’t even have to try.

“Sit down,” Derek mumbles gruffly. Stiles does.

Derek is not at all what Stiles was expecting. He is definitely a man of few words. He seems content with letting Stiles ramble on about his internship experience and blatant enthusiasm for the future of the company. Stiles tries different things. When biting his lip doesn’t get much of a response, he tries tilting his head to bear his neck while he gestures wildly with his hands. Derek’s eyes snap down to his throat, and then back up again. Stiles rubs a finger against his bottom lip and trails off, lets himself appreciate the literal perfection of the man in front of him for a moment. Then he quickly straightens, as if he’s forgotten himself, and folds his hands up in his lap. He quirks his lips and lamely finishes whatever he had been saying with a “so yeah.”

Derek averts his eyes and clears his throat, studying Simon Hayes’ resume in front of him. Stiles can’t tell if that’s a step forward or not. He wishes Derek were easier to read.

“Well, your resume isn’t unimpressive,” Derek grudgingly admits, as if it is the most difficult thing he’s ever said in his life.

“Thank you, sir.”

“The position I’m looking to fill is to head our Marketing Research and Strategy department. You don’t seem to have much experi—”

“If I may interrupt, sir, I’m assuming you’re gonna make a comment about my age or the fact that I’m fresh out of college. With all due respect—you are perfectly entitled to disagree; this is your company after all—but I think a new set of eyes is exactly what this place needs. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been watching Hale Advertising Company for _years_. Like, literally years. Since before you even took over for your uncle. Throughout college I kept an eye on several different organizations and I think Hale Co is by far the most impressive. You’re—you’re innovative. And smart. You don’t just tell people what they wanna hear, you convince them that what you’re saying is actually what they wanted to hear in the first place. If that…even makes any sense. Anyways, I think my youth could only benefit you and your team,” Stiles is on a roll. The careless rambling is a bit of a shot in the dark, and Derek’s eyebrows are slowly lowering. It’s ominous so Stiles tries the neck thing again, but Derek’s jaw is clenched, and his eyes don’t leave Stiles’.

“You’re implying that my guys out there are a bunch of old fogies,” Derek juts his chin at the closed office door to indicate the cluster of cubicles out there. Stiles almost wants to make a run for it at his expression alone.

“No, of course not, sir, they’re just…set in their ways, probably. I—” Stiles bites his lip and drops his eyes. He can’t stop the anxious tapping of his fingers against his knees. Maybe what Derek wants is subservience. Like all the guys out there, who will do what they’re told and answer phones and never challenge him at all. Stiles can do that, he really can. He just could’ve sworn this was something different. He watches Derek’s thumb rub at one corner of the resume. There is no way that Stiles won’t get this job. Deaton hacked into the system to find the rest of the applicants and has slowly been leaking deal breaking information or photos to ensure they won’t be hired. Lydia has been doing her thing here to find out exactly what they want, exactly what Stiles needs to be. Simon Hayes is squeaky clean and perfect. He’s not real, but he’s perfect.

It’s a quiet couple of minutes. Stiles keeps his eyes down, thinking hard. He hasn’t ruined it yet; he’s just discovered a few unexpected obstacles. No biggie. When he looks up again, he meets Derek’s eye. He’s been looking at Stiles the whole time.

“The position would require leading and communicating effectively with a large group of people,” Derek finally speaks, casually leaning back in his chair. Stile’s heart speeds up at both the visual and the blatant olive branch.

“Yes, sir. I was the president of the Student Marketing Association in school, so I’ve got a bit of experience leading a group in a business-related setting,” Stiles cuts himself off after that and holds his smile.

“You would also be expected to collaborate with a team of other department heads,” Derek adds, tilting his head like he’s waiting for something.

“Yes, sir,” Stiles nods, literally biting his tongue to keep himself from saying more.

Derek looks faintly amused, if that expression is even possible on his face. He doesn’t smile exactly, but his eyes go sly and twinkly, “That’s all?”

“Sorry?” Stiles asks, a bit distracted by Derek’s eyes doing anything that isn’t an irritated squint.

“That’s all you’re going to say?” his eyebrows go up in mock-shock, like he’s teasing. Stiles takes a breath and opens his mouth, fully prepared to respond. After a second, he lets the breath back out with a little huffing laugh. He thinks his cheeks go pink, which is just awesome.

“I was, uh, censoring myself. After I kinda put my foot in my mouth there,” he explains, doing his best to look self-conscious and not having to try very hard. Derek watches him for a moment like he’s looking at a complicated math problem. His eyes drop to Stiles’ throat without him even having to do the neck thing. Stiles swallows impulsively.

“I get the feeling that your mouth is pretty used to the taste of your foot,” Derek deadpans, never blinking. It’s a joke, which is the very last thing Stiles ever expected. He laughs loudly, the sound bursting out of him in an uncontrollable bark. Derek’s face never changes, but he leans forward slightly.

“Yeah, that is definitely a correct assumption,” Stiles admits, smiling wide and feeling all of twelve years old with how relieved he is at just a dumb joke. Derek stares, then purses his lips. It’s not a negative purse, it’s just a little thoughtful. He shrugs too, slipping Simon’s resume into a folder and tapping the folder on the surface of the desk before nonchalantly putting it in one of the drawers.

“I guess I’ll just have to get used to it.”

It takes Stiles a minute to let the words soak in. Derek is fixing his cufflinks, standing from his chair as if that settles everything. When Stiles can actually form thoughts he stands as well, body a flailing mass of excitement, “Oh my god, are you serious?!”

Derek sighs and rounds the desk so he can open the door. Stiles follows him, nearly bouncing on his toes. Derek holds the door so Stiles can go past, but Stiles stops at the threshold instead, smiling wide and right in Derek’s face. Stiles is a little shorter, but he makes up for the lost inch with pure enthusiasm.

“Thank you, sir. I know I can do great work here. I—just, thank you,” Stiles can feel the eyes of the whole floor on them. He sticks a hand out again so he can show them all that he taught Derek Hale to shake. Derek takes it after only a few seconds of hesitation, pumping firmly. There’s a good boy. Stiles even thinks he hears a gasp from behind him.

“Erica can get all the paperwork sorted. You’ll start on Monday,” Derek says, nodding over Stiles’ shoulder. His eyebrows go into serious-boss-mode.

“Excellent,” Stiles exclaims, finally stepping backwards out of the office and turning wildly to face the others. He sees Lydia’s indulgently fond expression and shoots her an excited thumbs up. A few other faces are watching him, so he plays it up. He freezes mid-step towards Erica and spins around again, pointing a finger at a startled looking Derek, “Oh—I almost forgot, you should water your plant!”

Derek looks vaguely confused, glancing into his office and then back out, but Stiles has already spun back around and retreated. He does a little shimmy, listens for the sound of the office door closing behind him and doesn’t hear a thing.


	2. Chapter 2

Come Monday, Stiles is still working through the exhaustion from his weekend-long research binge. He was given zero information on any of the projects that Hale Co is currently involved with, so he literally has no idea what to expect on his first day.

He just spent an unnecessary amount of time in his new tiny apartment, Googling and wishing that he hadn’t been forced to shred his photo of Derek along with the rest of his file before coming to New York. The media loves Derek Hale for his face and Derek must know it. Why else would he try so hard to avoid being photographed, even at Hale Co-sponsored events. The lack of online photographic evidence of his hotness is actually sad. Like, Stiles pouted for a good three hours about it.

When Peter Hale ran the company, he seemed to love any and all attention. Clearly that wasn’t a trait that Derek inherited.

Stiles is still a little mopey about the whole thing when he stops at the coffee shop across the street from Hale Advertising Company on Monday morning. It’s packed with the well-dressed and perpetually a little bit stressed type of people you’d expect in New York City on a weekday. Scott is behind the counter taking orders, impressively acting like every overtired asshole in line isn’t the bane of his whole existence.

When it’s Stiles’ turn at the register, he is greeted with a polite smile. Simon Hayes doesn’t know Scott.

“Just a large hazelnut latte for me, please,” Stiles says, thumbing open his wallet to see how much cash he has, “On second thought, gimme an extra shot in that. Start my new job today.”

Scott smiles, all big and reassuring, “Aw, good luck.”

He takes the cash Stiles hands to him and smiles again at the extra five bucks shoved into the tip jar. Stiles actually feels a little better after the whole interaction. He grabs his coffee and makes his way across the street, waving to Boyd on his way past the front desk.

Erica gave him a tour after his interview last week and took him to the front desk to get an employee ID badge made. She had introduced him to Boyd—head of security and apparently her future baby daddy. Stiles likes them; they can keep up with him.

Stiles stops on the Research and Strategy floor before he goes all the way up to where his new desk will be. Nobody is in yet—just empty conference rooms, a small computer lab and a long row of cubicles. He’s supposed to hold a meeting today just to introduce himself to everyone and get a feel for how everything works. Then there’s a lunch meeting with all the department heads. Office life sure is riveting.

Once on the top floor, he says a good morning to the few people already there and tries to get his desk organized. He can see the back of Lydia’s head where she’s commandeering the coffee machine in the little break area. A few minutes later, she saunters over with a mug clasped between her hands.

“Nervous?” she asks as she perches on the corner of his desk. She looks flawless as usual.

“If I say yes, are you gonna slap me?”

She does kick his ankle with the toe of her heel, but that is the extent of her violence, “We both know you’re absolutely perfect for this job. You’ll do great.”

It feels a little like they’re speaking in code. Stiles just smiles and lets her return to her own desk. He greets people as they trickle in and drains his latte like it’s water. Maybe the extra shot was a bad idea.

There’s no sign of Derek, which means he’s either late or he came in before Stiles got here. Neither scenario is any help for Stiles.

He makes his way back to Research and Strategy and takes the time to meet everyone working under him. They kind of introduce him to what they’re working on, but Stiles really can’t be bothered to concentrate on it all yet. He’s a smidge overwhelmed.

He almost forgets about the lunch meeting and has to sprint to make it in time. He slips into the conference room and manages to snag one of the last open seats, only a little out of breath. Derek gives him a look from where he is standing at the head of the table. It’s most likely a look of irritation, but Stiles thinks it could be classified as exasperation. Possibly. If you squint. Stiles is too busy looking at the way Derek’s pants squeeze his hips anyway.

Derek starts the meeting, going over a few housekeeping things before he gestures idly at Stiles, “As most of you are probably already aware, we have a new head of Marketing Research and Strategy. Simon Hayes. Please be patient and help him if he’s experiencing any difficulties adjusting.”

Stiles smiles, as bashful as it is cheeky, and waves to the room in general. Isaac is grinning at him from his seat next to Derek, so Stiles sticks his tongue out at him, quick as a flash. Someone halfway down the table snorts. Derek sighs like Stiles is exhausting him before continuing on with the meeting.

Stiles is kind of glad that the assistants aren’t here. Lydia already has enough blackmail material against him, she does not need to witness him being an idiot yet again. Apparently Erica is the only one required to come, what with the way she’s halfheartedly taking notes. She rolls her eyes at Stiles when she notices him looking. Nice.

The meeting ends and Derek must be the first one out of the room because he’s gone before Stiles can blink. Leaving his chair spinning behind him, Stiles hurries to follow.

“Mr. Hale!”

The broad set of shoulders tense a bit, Derek turning to raise his eyebrows at Stiles. His face is doing this surly _what-the-fuck-do-you-want_ thing, so Stiles thinks maybe people don’t usually try to bother Derek. Stiles bothers, though. Stiles is the king of bothering.

“Sorry, just. I was wondering if I could get summaries of all the projects Research and Strategy are currently working on? I went down earlier and met with everyone and kinda—”

“Erica can get that for you.”

Derek’s office door closes abruptly between them. Stiles is still standing there when Erica throws a balled-up piece of paper at his head. When he turns to look, she’s lounging at her desk, one hand rubbing her lower abdomen.

“Does he hate everyone or just me?” Stiles whines overdramatically. He tries to kick the ball of paper towards where Isaac is poorly disguising his laughter, but his foot completely misses and he ends up snapping his knee painfully.

Erica smiles and it’s terrifying, “I think it’s the opposite actually.”

Whatever the hell that means.

-

The rest of the week continues in much the same fashion—with boring meetings and lattes and Stiles honestly just winging it and hoping he doesn’t mess everything up. Derek spends most of his days holed up in his office, and Stiles really has no realistic reason to ever go in and flirt with him. He doesn’t even see Derek at all for the entirety of Wednesday and Thursday. It’s fine, he’s still trying to build up rapport with everyone around the office. He just misses Derek’s hot cranky face, is all.

By the end of the day on Friday, Stiles is actually surprised he managed to make it through the whole week. He’s camped out at his desk, simultaneously reviewing a proposal for a new potential campaign, signing off on budget stuff for Finstock, trying to organize some kind of presentation for a meeting on Monday and doodling on a spare napkin from the coffee place across the street. He’s got an apple in his hand that he keeps mindlessly biting without paying attention. When he accidently bites fingers or core, he rotates it.

At 5pm sharp, Lydia appears in his peripheral, hands on her hips and a sassy expression on her face that Stiles can sense without even looking.

“Simon,” she draws his name out like she’s trying to imply that he’s an idiot without saying it aloud.

“Lillian,” he mocks her tone.

“This is usually the time when the work week ends and normal people return home to relax and unwind.”

He sighs, throwing his head back against his chair and turning to face her finally. He gestures towards the papers covering his desk with his apple, “Gotta finish something first.”

She looks playfully dubious, “Just making sure you’re aware. With it being your first week in a big, scary office.”

He takes a bite of apple and mashes it up between his molars, opening his mouth in a big fake smile. He tries to laugh as sarcastically as he can manage with his mouth full, but he chokes a little bit. Damn apple. Lydia doesn’t even spare him an eye-roll, just raises a brow and starts walking towards the elevator.

“Lunch tomorrow? We can catch up,” she calls over her shoulder.

“Text me,” Stiles agrees, thinking about it for a beat before he calls across the floor again, “But nowhere fancy-pants! Just a casual, cheap lunch. I swear, Lily, if it costs me more than like three bucks, I’m refunding your friendship. You can ditch me for some rich New Yorker elites and I’ll just hang out with the rats in their dirty little sewer homes.”

Lydia has long since let the elevator doors close, but Stiles was on a roll. He hears Erica snort and his eyes snap to where she’s coming out of Derek’s office. She grabs her purse and jacket from her desk, sashaying he way to the elevator with a “later Hayes.”

“Tell Boyd I like him better,” he calls after her, just to be difficult.

It didn’t take long to befriend all his new coworkers. They’re all fun and seem to tolerate his occasional ridiculous comment or inability to shut his mouth. It’s Derek that Stiles needs to get close to. And he’s kind of grasping at straws, at this point.

He’s not exactly staying late just to attempt to interact with Derek. He actually has work to do. If he happens to see Derek, though, well that’s just a bonus. And also could technically be considered work that he needs to do.

The remaining people on the floor clear out quickly. After another couple hours of Stiles accomplishing some hardcore multitasking, Derek’s office door opens. He’s loosened his tie a bit, hair just a little messy on top. His eyes are zeroed in on the coffee machine, looking like he’s on a mission that only caffeine can help with. He freezes, eyes going wide for a second when he sees Stiles at his desk.

“You’re still here,” Derek doesn’t say it like a question. There’s really no inflection in his voice at all when he says it. Just straight-up monotone.

“Still catching up on a few things,” Stiles explains. He’s trying really hard not to let his eyes fall of the dip of Derek’s waist, or the stretch of his shirt across his chest, or how his pants are just the tiniest bit too tight on his thighs. Derek is unfairly attractive. Stiles doesn’t have to pretend to be interested at all. Like, not even a miniscule amount.

“You should go home. You’ve had a busy week.”

“I could say the same to you, buddy,” Stiles bites his lip in horror as he watches Derek’s face cloud over. Derek looks kind of constipated—eyebrows threatening to converge and eyes going squinty. He’s crossed his arms over his chest sometime in the last ten seconds, and it does wonders for the bulge of his biceps.

“I mean—uhh. Not buddy. Definitely not buddy. _Sir_ , I meant sir. Because you are my boss.”

Stiles isn’t sure how great that recovery was. Derek is still just frozen there, like a statue. A marble statue. A marble statue of a Greek god crafted by Michelangelo himself. Derek is hot.

After a weighted moment, Derek just snorts and turns back towards the coffee machine. Stiles is so relieved he feels all the tension leave his body like he’s a deflated balloon. Stiles follows him to the break area.

“Could you make some for me too?” Stiles asks, lifting himself up to perch on the counter. He watches Derek dump the cold, burnt coffee still in the pot and grab the Folgers. Derek doesn’t speak, but he scoops out more than enough for the both of them. The machine starts hissing, the scent of the slow drips of coffee making Stiles inhale deeply. He hums, pleased.

Derek is hovering, looking like he wants to go back to his office while the coffee finishes brewing. He doesn’t leave, though. He just shifts on his feet, back ramrod straight and eyes never leaving the slowly filling carafe.

“So, thank you for giving me a chance, by the way,” Stiles breaks the silence, “I’m still shocked you even agreed to interview with me.”

Derek turns to face him, head moving like he can’t even help it. He studies Stiles, studies every inch of his face like he’s looking for some hidden meaning in his words. Whether he finds it or not, he just nods and grunts, looking back at the coffee machine. Caveman speak, nice.

“I don’t get why you didn’t just promote someone who already works here, though. Not trying to give you any ideas. Just. You don’t seem like much of a gambling man.”

“Maybe we just needed some fresh eyes,” Derek says grudgingly, like the words have been forced out of his mouth. His hand is outstretched towards the handle of the carafe, waiting for the machine to indicate that it’s done brewing. His forearm is right in front of Stiles—shirtsleeve rolled up to expose skin, covered in a fine layer of dark hair and tanned slightly. Stiles can’t resist.

He puts his hand on Derek, feels the muscle tense. “No matter why you hired me, thank you. I really hope I can do good things for this company. I don’t wanna let anyone down.”

Derek nods again, gaze locked on where Stiles hasn’t removed his hand. He does remove it then, quickly. As if he had forgotten it was even there. He hadn’t forgotten, of course, but Derek doesn’t know that. The machine has finished in the few seconds that Derek was distracted. When he notices, he pulls two Hale Co mugs from a cabinet, glancing in them suspiciously to make sure they’re clean. He pours a healthy serving of coffee into both, replacing the carafe and swiping one to hold under his nose, like he wants to breathe in coffee steam instead of oxygen. He’s already turning back towards his office.

Stiles sighs, knowing that that’s probably all the conversation he’ll get today. He slides off the counter and starts fixing his coffee up with sugar and the gross powdered creamer stashed in the cabinet. He adds more sugar to mask the sour taste of fake dairy.

“How do you know?” says a voice from behind him.

Stiles jumps, surprised that Derek actually hasn’t returned to his office. He’s just standing there behind Stiles like a creeper, nose gone a little pink from where he hasn’t pulled the hot coffee mug away from his face. His focus is all on Stiles, though. It’s disarming, to have all his focus. His eyes are steady, intense enough that Stiles might even be blushing.

“Uh, what?”

“How do you know—what kind of man I am?” his words sound loud in the empty room, insistent in a way he’s never been around Stiles before. There’s a confused pause before Stiles realizes he’s asking about something Stiles said on a whim minutes ago. About him being a gambling man. Stiles wasn’t trying to imply anything with the statement, didn’t really mean anything by it at all. Derek seems oddly fixated on it.

Stiles doesn’t really know how to respond. He thinks about cracking a joke, saying something about how he spent all of last weekend Googling Derek Hale. He thinks about getting defensive and questioning how much Derek thinks he knows about Stiles in return. He can’t get a good enough read on Derek to figure out what the best response is. It’s an honest question, though.

So Stiles is honest, “I guess I don’t.”

As if that answers his question perfectly, Derek nods—that seems to be his ideal mode of communication. He actually starts on his way back to his office this time, mug safely lowered to less of a face-burning level.

“Not yet, at least,” Stiles calls out before Derek turns the corner and separates them with his office door. There’s no visible reaction from Derek, just a slight turn of his head as if he’s had to stop himself from turning back to look at Stiles. The door snicks shut.

Stiles works for another hour, but Derek never comes back out. He goes home reluctantly.

-

Lunch with Lydia is at a cute little diner place. It’s overpriced but still casual, so Stiles only complains until the food comes and he can shove a burger in his face.

“So how are you liking work?” Lydia asks, mouth stretching to take her own huge bite of burger. As long as he’s known her, Lydia has always had an appetite, and Stiles loves her even more for it.

“Fine,” he shrugs, mouth full, “Stressful. No clue what I’m doing. Pretty sure Derek hates me.”

“Mr. Hale doesn’t _hate_ you,” Lydia takes a swipe at his head, only missing because Stiles was expecting it.

“ _Mr. Hale_ can’t even look at me for more than twenty seconds at a time.”

“You haven’t given him a chance to. Plus, his friends all seem to like you. That can’t hurt.”

Stiles waits for her to elaborate or something, because—friends? Stiles has never seen him act friendly with anyone. He barely even seems to tolerate talking with the people he pays to be around him.

Stiles must look as confused as he feels because Lydia rolls her eyes, “Erica, Boyd and Isaac? Hello? His friends? They go out together sometimes, at least when they can drag Mr. Hale out of the office to come along.”

Stiles feels like his world has shifted, or something. Derek Hale has friends? It actually makes sense—with the way Isaac and Erica seem so comfortable with him in the office. But Derek is always as stoic as can be, never giving off any sign that he considers any of the people around him friends.

“Well, nobody ever _told me that_ ,” Stiles says, tying to communicate his immense irritation at how that innocent little fact was left completely out of the file. The file even had Derek’s doctor’s name; was it that difficult to find the names of his _friends_?

“Was I supposed to? It’s not my job to tell you personal details about my boss,” Lydia snarks. Stiles translates it to mean something like _I didn’t make the fucking file_.

“He’s my boss too, now,” Stiles adds, always in the mood to contribute to an argument.

“Then maybe you should just _do your job_ ,” Lydia darkly, raising an intimidating eyebrow and stealing his pickle spear. And yeah, Stiles doesn’t actually have to translate that one.

-

Stiles isn’t expecting to wake up any time before noon on Sunday, so he’s a little disorientated when he stumbles out of bed to see who’s knocking a little after 9. It’s Deaton. It takes Stiles’ half-asleep brain a second to form a coherent sentence.

“Alan,” he says, because yes. It is Alan. Fantastic observational skills, Stiles.

“Simon,” Deaton responds, smiling indulgently, “It’s great to see you.”

He pulls Stiles into a hug, which is fine. He’s supposed to be Stiles’ godfather. It’s fine. It’s just weird, is the thing. It’s a little paranoid. There’s nobody even in the hallway besides them. Deaton has always been obnoxiously vigilant. Stiles hugs back. It’s fine.

“Shall we get breakfast? You parents wanted me to come check on how you’re settling in,” Deaton continues, his brain clearly working a lot faster than Stiles’ right now.

“Yes! Come in, let me just change into literally anything else,” Stiles waves down at his Batman boxers. Deaton smiles. Or maybe he never even stopped smiling from before. Stiles is too tired to care.

-

They end up at a greasy hole-in-the-wall down the street from Stiles’ apartment. Stiles orders the largest stack of pancakes they have, downing half a cup of coffee in one sip.

“New job going well, then?” Deaton asks, dunking his tea bag over and over again like he’s trying to make it dance.

“Yeah, not bad. All my coworkers are super nice. Boss still seems a little scared of me, but I’ll get him to like me eventually.”

“If nothing else, you are persistent,” Deaton agrees, thanking the waitress as she sets down their food. They fall into silence as they eat. It’s tense, but only because Stiles doesn’t understand why Deaton wanted to meet him at all. He was really only supposed to get himself involved if Stiles ever needed help.

As they clear their plates, Deaton points to something out the window, chuckling lightly but speaking like he’s trying to say something important, “That little guy was at the clinic earlier this week for a check-up. What are the odds of that?”

Stiles looks to where he’s pointing, spotting a German Shepherd sniffing at a light post. The dog looks to be on the older side, a little bit overweight. The man holding the leash is ripped, though. He’s filling out his t-shirt like he wants to battle Derek Hale for The Biggest Arm Muscles Ever award. When Stiles looks at his face, he’s looking right at them. Granted, he had black sunglasses covering his eyes, but it’s clear his attention is on the restaurant. Or it was, before Stiles turned to look at him and caught his staring. _What are the odds of that?_

“What’s the dog’s name?” Stiles asks, still watching the man and his dog. There’s not even any grass nearby. Why wouldn’t he go the small community park a quarter mile down the street?

“Fuzz,” Deaton says, sipping his tea delicately.

“Fuzz?” Stiles thinks he sounds a little incredulous.

“Yes.”

Stiles doesn’t wanna jump to any drastic conclusions from what Deaton is saying. It’s a little harder to read him than Lydia or Scott. He’s pretty sure he’s not making this all up in his head, though.

“That’s just…cruel.”

Deaton hums nonsensically, grabbing the bill from the waitress so he can pay. His eyes are downcast, calculating the tip when he adds, “He’s sweet, but clingy. He’d probably follow you all the way home if you let him.”

When Stiles looks again, the man and his dog are gone. It could’ve easily been a coincidence, but Stiles has known Deaton for years, has learned to trust Deaton’s gut reactions. If this guy has been around Deaton enough for him to take notice, then someone must be keeping tabs on them. Or at least on Deaton. Either way, it’s bad news.

They exit the restaurant and hug, Deaton sending him home with a “Keep in touch, I want to hear all about how work is going!”

Stiles tries not to look like he’s paranoid on his walk back home. There’s no sign of the guy with the dog, but that doesn’t mean a thing. Once he’s inside, he searches his entire apartment for bugs or cameras. He doesn’t find any but isn’t any more reassured by that fact.

When he’s changing back into his Batman boxers later, Stiles feels something in the back pocket of his jeans. He pulls it out and sees the receipt from breakfast. On the back side, in Deaton’s handwriting, reads _I’ll handle it. Stay alert. Finish the job._

Stiles burns it just in case.

-

A month later and Stiles isn’t any closer to getting Derek Hale to trust him. He works, jokes around with the other employees, drinks excessive amounts of caffeine and overall just tries to look like he knows what the fuck he’s even doing. He’ll exchange casual office talk with Derek—simple things like how the printer always jams at the worst moment or how the sink in the men’s bathroom shoots water out like a wannabe geyser. They’ve even been the last two in the office again, sharing the coffee machine in a show of camaraderie. Nothing ever happens. Not for lack of trying on Stiles’ part, of course.

He lets his eyes roam and his words pick up a teasing edge. He does the neck thing. Constantly—he’s constantly doing the neck thing. And Derek looks at him, sure. He looks and he gives Stiles these weird inscrutable glances. But he always walks away or goes silent before the conversation can go anywhere interesting.

Which is why Stiles is so excited when Erica invites him to go out with them one Friday.

It’s nearing the time when people usually start to leave. Stiles’ concentration is at a level zero, so he’s fully invested in the who-can-toss-more-gummy-bears-into-the-other’s-mouth game that he’s started with Isaac. Erica emerges from Derek’s office not long after, dragging him out by a strong grip on his arm. She was in there trying to convince him to come to the bar, and obviously managed through sheer stubbornness alone. Stiles appreciates that. He also appreciates the disgruntled frown on Derek’s pretty face. Is appreciating it so much that he gets hit in the forehead with a gummy bear.

Isaac lets out the loudest bark of laughter Stiles has ever heard. Derek rolls his eyes, storming towards the elevator like he doesn’t even want to breathe the same air as any of them. Stiles won’t allow that. He’s never shared an elevator with Derek—it could be interesting.

It’s not really that interesting. Stiles thinks that’s probably because Erica and Isaac are there too, arguing about a plot point in Breaking Bad. Boyd meets them in the lobby, nodding hello to them and nodding goodbye to the night security staff. It’s a lot of nodding. Stiles can see why he and Derek get along.

They end up crowded in a booth at a small pub that Stiles has never heard of. It’s nice, the lights are dim, and the place is busy enough that there’s a pleasant buzz of background noise. For a second, it looks like Erica is attempting to shove Derek into the seat next to Stiles. Boyd just reels her in with a hand on her protruding belly and he takes the seat instead. Stiles is only a little upset. Derek ends up across from him anyways, which puts less strain on his neck.

“I’ll get the first round,” Isaac offers, standing up and striding to the bar. There’s a group of pretty girls ordering that he’s already drifting towards.

“Water for me!” Erica calls after him, leaning in to whisper something into Boyd’s ear. They both laugh and he kisses her on the nose. It’s almost too personal, and Stiles has to look away, turning towards Derek. Derek who is watching him from under his lashes. He startles when he sees he’s been caught, eyes dropping to where he’s thumbing at the edge of a cardboard coaster.

“Weird to see you outside the office,” Stiles says, kicking at Derek’s ankle under the table. When he drops his foot back down, their calves are pressed together. He leaves it there. Derek had raised his eyebrows, which is probably the only response Stiles will be granted with.

“I mean you’re in work mode non-stop. It’s like, who knew there was even a non-work mode Derek Hale. For all I know you could be a vampire, but with working. Like vampires can’t come out in the sunlight and Derek Hale can’t be anywhere that isn’t work.”

Derek seems to be processing that, mouth half open like he’s literally been rendered speechless. He didn’t have much speech to begin with, so Stiles isn’t sure how much grief he should feel about the whole thing.

“You—just,” Derek is stuttering. Oh no, Stiles broke Derek. “Just call me _Derek_. Jesus.”

Stiles can’t even hold back the huge grin that fills his face. He’s happy, okay. He’s allowed to be happy.

“I don’t have to call you sir?” Stiles teases. And then suddenly Stiles _swears_ he feels Derek’s leg press against his a little harder. There’s no change in facial expression except a roll of the eyes. But Stiles swears he felt it, so he presses back.

“I kid, I kid. Thank you for the permission to enter first-name-basis territory, Derek Jesus.” Stiles can hear the laugh in his own voice as he says it. Erica snorts from nearby, which. Okay cool it, Stiles, remember there are other people at the table.

Isaac returns with drinks then, and everyone gets a little distracted. Stiles has his eyes on Derek, though. And it’s too late. He’s already seen it and felt his heart skip like it wanted to climb right out his throat. Because Derek is smiling. Barely, a tiny thing. He’s busying himself by grabbing a beer, but on his face there’s a real smile—bitten down like he’s trying with everything in him to hide it away where nobody else can see it.


	3. Chapter 3

After the night when Stiles joined everyone out at the bar, it feels like something has shifted between him and Derek. Like, they actually talk sometimes now. _Joke_ , even. Derek ventures out of his office more and more every day, bossing Erica around out in the open instead of hidden away at his desk. Stiles teases him mostly, throws him lewd a once-over sometimes and overall just gives him as much shit as he thinks he can get away with. Derek takes it in stride, showing off his best glare and occasionally snarking back. Erica and Isaac look fascinated every time it happens.

They’ve all gone to the bar a couple more times together, but now that Stiles has made himself a neat little home smack-dab in the middle of Derek’s awareness, he doesn’t need the bar. Derek comes over to hear whatever new ridiculous thing Stiles has to say all by himself.

That’s the only reason Stiles feels comfortable enough to invite himself into Derek’s office. He actually does have some paperwork he needs signed, but that’s mostly an excuse. He knocks, trying to pretend like he can’t feel Erica watching him. When he hears a grunt that could probably be permission to enter, he slips inside. He leaves the door open only because he doesn’t think Derek could handle the extent of Stiles’ flirting while in an enclosed space yet.

Derek looks shocked to see him, actually. His eyes go a bit panicked before he sighs out a resigned, “Simon.”

“Howdy, Derek Jesus. Got some stuff for you to sign,” he sets the paperwork right on top of Derek’s open laptop, feeling no remorse for interrupting whatever Derek had been working on. He takes a seat on one of the chairs across from the desk, in it for the long haul.

Derek is frozen for a second or two, glaring down at the papers, before he warily picks them up so he can look them over. He looks like he’s reading extremely closely, as if he’s scared Stiles is gonna try to make him sign a contract giving away his first born or something.

As pretty as Derek’s reading-face is, Stiles can’t help but glance at the plant in the corner. It somehow looks even more sad and wilting than the last time he was in here.

“I thought I told you to water that!” Stiles exclames, probably much too loud. Derek flinches, eyes shooting up at Stiles in alarm. He follows Stiles’ gaze to look over his shoulder at the plant.

Scoffing, Derek turns back to the paperwork, “I’ve been busy.”

“You—” Stiles doesn’t even know what he wants to say to that. Instead, he jumps up from the chair and fast-walks all the way to the break area, grumbling under his breath about grumpy men and plant torture. He finds a random water glass, filling it in the sink. He’s a little more careful on his walk back to Derek’s office, but the grumbling continues. Erica sticks a leg out to try to trip him. He just leaps over it and adds something about evil pregnant she-devils to his grumbles.

He ignores Derek looking at him like he’s insane as he kneels next to the poor plant and waters it. He may or may not be singing a little lullaby to comfort it.

“I know your default setting is like, to hate all living things, but c’mon man,” Stiles glances up to see Derek still watching him. It sends a little thrill up his spine—to have Derek sitting at his desk, looking down at him, while he’s on his knees on the floor.

“I don’t…” It’s not exactly a complete sentence, with the way that Derek drags out the last syllable like he’s stalling, trying to come up with what the hell he wants to actually say. His fingers are kind of crinkling the paperwork he’s still holding.

“At least take your eternal angst out on Greenberg or something. He keeps stealing the Chips Ahoy from my lunch when I keep it in the fridge. It’s gotten to the point where I have to choose between delicious cookie goodness or rank chicken salad. And my self-control is nonexistent where Chips Ahoy are concerned.”

There’s a moment of puzzled silence, “Why don’t you just… Take the cookies out and keep them in your desk?” Derek hasn’t looked away from Stiles, his body actually turning a bit in his desk chair so he doesn’t have to crane his neck to the side so much.

“You are—oh my,” Stiles is honestly shocked that he hadn’t thought of that, he shuffles a few inches closer to Derek on his knees, mouth open in realization, “Okay, see? That right there is why you’re the boss. You’re a _genius_.”

“I’m not,” Derek says, looking a little alarmed at their sudden proximity. It sounds like a complete sentence this time—one using as little words as possible, which is Derek’s usual style.

“Alright, fine, you’re just a simple man who had a genius idea. I suppose a real genius would remember to water their plant.”

Derek gets that signature surly glare back on his face. It’s good, it makes Stiles feel like they’re back in familiar territory. Derek puts the papers down on his desk and spins fully to face Stiles, head tilting condescendingly, “If it matters to you so much, then you can water it.”

The small smirk that had been on Stiles’ face grows slowly, probably turning into something that looks completely manic. Derek seems to think over his words, because his eyebrows collapse. He looks terrified. Stiles wants to _giggle_.

“You are _soo_ gonna wish you hadn’t said that, man,” he grabs the empty water glass in one hand and puts the other on Derek’s thigh to help him stand. Grunting at the way his joints pop, Stiles practically _skips_ out of the office. He tries not to turn and stare when in his peripheral he sees Derek’s gaze go to his leg, right where Stiles’ hand had been.

Stiles had left his paperwork with Derek on purpose, so a few minutes later he tries to hold back his grin when Derek has to leave his office to bring the signatures back to him. Derek doesn’t fully meet his eyes.

His narrowed gaze focuses a few cubicles over when he hears some crunching, though. “Greenberg,” he barks, “I think I pay you enough that you can afford to buy your own cookies.”

He spins on his heel and hurries back to his office, but his words are still threatening enough that Greenberg chokes, coughing up cookie crumbs all over his keyboard. It’s awesome.

-

Stiles takes advantage of his newfound excuse to be in Derek’s personal space. He stops by once a week to water the plant, then twice more each week just to talk to it. He assures Derek that talking to the plant will help it flourish, ignoring the dubious look he gets.

Derek seems to grow more comfortable around him, joining in on Stiles’ banter or just listening to him ramble endlessly. One particularly boring afternoon, Stiles is ten minutes in to describing one of the many Star Wars conspiracy theories he saw on Reddit. He’s half talking to the plant and half talking to Derek, who continues to type on his laptop as if Stiles isn’t even there. He’s taken up his usual spot kneeling by the plant, ankles protesting a little bit at how long he’s been sitting like that.

After a few more minutes of this, Derek stops typing. He glances at Stiles, exasperated, then turns to look at the plant, “How in the world do you even deal with him?”

Stiles’ words freeze in his throat, eyes bulging dramatically.

“Oh my God, dude! You—you’re talking to the plant!” he’s not sure what his face is doing, but his hand flies up to smack himself in the forehead in complete shock. Stiles really is just a pile of uncontrollable limbs. “You have to get closer, so it knows who you’re talking to. C’mere, c’mere.”

At Stiles’ frantic hand waving him towards the plant, Derek sighs and drops down on his knees next to Stiles. He stares resolutely at one of the bright green leaves that has recently sprouted, corner of his mouth twitching. He rolls his eyes, mutters “You’re such an idiot.”

Stiles playfully smacks him in the shoulder, “Don’t talk to the plant like that!”

It’s a real smile on Derek’s face now, relaxing his brow and making his eyes look a little brighter. He traces a thumb over the veins in the leaf and Stiles can’t look away. Derek just looks so pretty, the afternoon sun hitting the cut of his cheekbones just right. His skin almost glows gold in this light, lips turning into something soft. Something Stiles has never seen before.

“You totally talk to your plant when I’m not here,” Stiles says, but it comes out as a whisper and he didn’t mean for it to. Derek turns to look at him. They’re so close, Stiles realizes. He wasn’t aware of how close they were sitting until Derek’s eyes lock with his and it’s like he can see every individual eyelash. The tips of Derek’s ear turn pink. His mouth has fallen open, but he doesn’t say anything. Stiles glances at the row of white teeth he can see peeking out. “Don’t deny it,” he says, with a little more volume.

Derek blinks fast a few times, eyes flitting to take in every inch of Stiles’ face. He inhales, just short of sharply. Then his face closes off, in a way that draws attention to the fact that he had even dropped his guarded expression in the first place. Stiles hadn’t noticed how vulnerable he had looked until it was gone.

“You have no proof,” Derek says as he stands. It’s like he’s trying to fall back into their usual teasing, but his voice just sounds _wrecked_. He falls back into his desk chair and starts typing at his laptop again furiously. Stiles gives himself a second just to breathe before he stands too.

“I’ll catch you in the act someday,” he says on his way back to his desk, trying to ignore the way his voice comes out all croaky. Stiles has seduced more that his fair share of both men and women. Has done it effortlessly, all in the face of their beauty and money and power. He’s not really sure why his heart currently feels like it’s about beat right through his chest.

-

A few weeks later, Stiles comes into Derek’s office to find a tiny little Darth Vader watering can sitting next to the plant. He promptly collapses onto the floor, gasping and sinking down to lay on his stomach so he can put his face right next to it.

“Holy sh—cow!” he yells, catching himself at the last second because, hello, he’s a professional. Now that he’s closer, he can see that it looks like it’s actually supposed to be a teapot—a little spout coming out of the side of the Vader head. There’s a handle and when Stiles grabs it, he can feel that it’s already full of water.

“I cannot believe this! This is the best thing I’ve ever seen in my admittedly short and uneventful life!” He covers his face with his hands, trying to get some semblance of control over the fluttering he can feel all the way down to his toes. He rolls onto his back, then just keeps rolling because it’s helping reduce the urge he feels to jump around and fist pump the air. He screams into his hands—quietly though, he’s not that unstable.

He’s aware of Derek laughing somewhere in the background, and Erica poking her head in to see what all the yelling is about. When he finally calms down enough to stop rolling, he’s panting, shirt twisted around his torso and probably full of gross dust from the carpet underneath him. He cracks his fingers open so he can look through them.

Derek has his arms crossed over his chest, cheeks bulging with his smile but lips closed, like he’s trying to hide how obviously amused he is. His eyes sparkle along the waterline in a way that makes Stiles suspect he’d been laughing so hard he had been near tears. Stiles is suddenly irrationally mad at himself for missing it.

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up, “You done?”

Stiles lets his hands fall off his face completely, sinking into the floor. He wonders what he looks like right now—rumpled and flushed, limbs splayed out carelessly at Derek’s feet. He wets his lips, still kind of out of breath. “Where did you _find_ it?”

“The water glasses in the break room are for people, not plants,” Derek says, in lieu of answering. He’s already turning back to his desk to continue with whatever he was working on, and no. Stiles can’t have that happening.

He stretches an arm out, fingers sliding over the shiny leather of Derek’s shoe before he gets a hold of his ankle. His fingers slip under the hem of Derek’s pants, but there’s still a sock in the way. Stiles wishes he could feel the skin there, thinks it would be soft. Derek is warm under Stiles’ palm. “You bought that for me,” Stiles says. It’s not a question.

Derek’s face is unreadable. His throat bobs with a swallow. When Stiles squeezes his fingers tighter around his ankle, Derek’s eyes flutter half closed. He keeps looking at Stiles through the thick frame of his lashes. Even when he stands, hovering near Stiles’ hip, the hand doesn’t leave his ankle. Stiles can feel the bones shifting with his movement.

Derek’s gaze feels _heavy_ somehow. It’s almost uncomfortable—like he can see right through every carefully crafted defense Stiles has put up. He looks like a giant from down on the floor. The long plane of his chest seems to stretch on for miles. Derek really makes Stiles wanna do something stupid. A big hand reaches down, a silent offering to help him get off the ground.

Stiles studies the fine dark hairs on the back of it, the neatly trimmed fingernails. He releases Derek’s ankle and grabs the offered hand, smooth palms slipping together. Neither of them move just yet.

“I think that’s enough excitement for the plant today,” Derek’s voice is low. He pulls at Stiles’ hand then, and Stiles can feel the pure strength behind it. The power and presence, the way Derek demands attention, without even trying to, just by the way he steps into a room. The way he is so beautifully unmoving—stable and unshakable. It’s terrifying for the way it makes Stiles want to stop, want to settle back into his own skin without the usual theatrics and layers of fabricated backstory.

Stiles can’t think about that right now. He’s too afraid of what he might do. He can’t afford to be making stupid mistakes. It’s already ominous, the way his chest aches with how much he doesn’t want to hurt Derek. He lets himself be pulled to his feet, balancing himself with a hand on Derek’s ribs.

“You’re kicking me out?” Stiles whines, a fake pout on his lips. Derek hasn’t stepped away from him.

“You have work to do,” Derek says, breath fanning over Stiles’ face with how close they still are. Stiles has to ease himself back a step, hands falling from both Derek’s grasp and his chest. He feels a little shaky in the knees. Stiles looks longingly towards the Darth Vader head. It’s not a watering day, but he’s almost tempted to break his carefully established routine.

“Simon,” Derek says, just a hair too close to Stiles’ ear. The name snaps him into focus, reminds him of what he’s supposed to be doing here. Sighing dramatically, Stiles tips his head back to stare at the ceiling tiles. Derek is looking at his neck, he thinks.

“ _Fine_ ,” Stiles moans, glaring playfully as he steps around Derek to get to the door, “You’re no fun.”

The shrewd look that Erica gives him on his way back to his desk says that she heard that last comment and knows he’s lying.

-

At the next department head meeting, Derek reminds everyone about some anniversary party being held in the office the following week. Stiles has no idea what he’s talking about, but he’s instantly excited. Everyone else must feel the same way, because there’s a lively buzz of conversation when the meeting adjourns.

“Party?” Stiles exclaims, eyes wide and demanding answers as he moves through the conference room to get closer to Derek. His fellow coworkers sidestep him with ease, all more than familiar with Stiles’ dramatics at this point.

“We have it every year,” Isaac pipes up, trying to neatly slip some notes into a folder, “It’s to celebrate the opening of Hale Co—like fifty something years ago.”

“Fifty- _six_ years ago,” Derek mumbles, still disconnecting his laptop from the big monitor on the wall.

“ _What_?” Stiles is kinda just overexaggerating for the sake of overexaggerating now.

“Lily’s on the planning committee,” Isaac says, tone implying that Stiles is all kinds of stupid.

“Lily never tells me anything,” he complains, trying to find Lydia through the wall of windows so he can glare. She totally would purposefully not tell him about fun things like parties.

“The whole Hale family always comes. It’s just a way to give thanks to all our employees. We let everyone off early and cater some food. There’s cake. It’s nice,” Derek finally contributes, looking a little mortified at having described anything as _nice_.

“I get to meet your family?!” Stiles is hopping on his toes in pure, unfiltered joy.

“Open bar, too,” Isaac adds, smile going sharp.

“This day just keeps getting better and better,” Stiles sighs dreamily, not deterred in the slightest by Derek’s eye roll.

-

The following Friday, Stiles and Lydia stop at the coffee shop across the street during their lunch break. It doesn’t look like Scott’s working, no sign of him from their place in line.

“You and Mr. Hale have been getting along pretty well,” Lydia comments idly, her eyes scanning the drink menu. It’s all a front—Stiles knows that Lydia orders a small Americano every time, without fail.

“Yeah, well, he’s a cool boss,” Stiles shrugs, staring hard at the row of muffins in the display case. For some reason he’s eager to change the subject. Lydia hums and Stiles tries hard not to look at her, knowing that she’d be able to instantly see his every thought on his face. He’s staring intently at the last chocolate muffin in the case, conveniently so invested in it that he can’t add anything else to the conversation.

Lydia steps up to the register, jostling their shoulders together sharply. She orders a small Americano and the last chocolate muffin. It irrationally makes Stiles feel like his life is falling apart. She can read him too well sometimes.

Stiles halfheartedly orders his usual hazelnut latte, debating frantically in his head before finally settling on a banana nut muffin. He doesn’t let himself pout about it where Lydia can see.

While they’re waiting to cross the street, Lydia shoves the chocolate muffin into his hand. Stiles has to crush the two muffins he’s now holding between his arm and his chest so they don’t fall.

“There,” she says, eyes on the line of cars still coming down the street. “How kind of you, I believe Mr. Hale loves banana nut.”

Lydia looks at him then, long and searching, looks at him like she _knows_ something. For a second, Stiles can’t move. She crosses the street without looking back.

-

Stiles doesn’t bring Derek the muffin, no matter how much Lydia glares at him from her desk. He just places it right next to his cup of pens, his eyes falling on it so much it’s like they don’t know how to look anywhere else.

People are eager to leave the office today. The weather has been warming up lately, taunting them through the big windows all around them. Stiles lets Lydia talk him into going to her place on Saturday to hang out. He knows he’s probably in for a huge lecture from her, but he doesn’t want to insist that he can’t make it with all their coworkers listening in. Lydia knows this, which is exactly why she’s asking him at work.

Stiles has been so distracted all afternoon that he has to stay late looking over a few reports from earlier in the week. The floor clears out quickly, and Stiles is so preoccupied that he doesn’t even notice he’s alone until he looks up to find only empty desks. The sun has started to set, throwing golden light and long shadows across everything.

Stiles can’t look away from the muffin on his desk.

He glances at Derek’s closed office door. The shades are all drawn, like they usually are, so he can’t see if Derek is even still in there. He’d be surprised if Derek wasn’t, though. He is always there before anyone else arrives, and he leaves only after everyone else is gone. Stiles is always half tempted to complain that he works too much, but he can see how much Derek cares. How much he just wants to make his family proud.

Stiles is knocking at the door before he even realizes it. There’s no response, but when Stiles tries the handle, the door opens. It takes him a second to comprehend what he’s looking at.

Derek is sitting at his desk, laptop pushed out of the way a little and papers spread all over the surface. His head is resting on the desk, pillowed on an arm. There are soft snores coming out of his mouth, shoulders rising steadily with each breath. It’s unfairly adorable, and Stiles has the sudden urge to take him home and tuck him into bed.

There’s a USB drive over in Stiles’ bag. One that he received in his file the day he first arrived on the East Coast. When plugged into a computer, it’s supposed to download a detailed history of all the activity on the computer from the past twelve months. That’s his job—the whole reason he’s even in this office, the whole reason he has spent _weeks_ getting close to Derek. He gets the computer history and then he turns it in to The Boss and then he leaves Hale Co. Quietly and without drama, subtle enough that eventually they’ll barely even remember his name. And in a few months, after Derek’s bank accounts have been drained and all of his dirty secrets have been exposed as insurance that he would never even dare to go to the cops, Stiles will be long gone. In another state, maybe another country. Definitely not answering to the name Simon Hayes—never again.

That’s his job. It’s the job that he’s done successfully countless times before. But Stiles isn’t even thinking about the USB drive, isn’t even looking at the computer.

He can’t look away from the way Derek’s cheek is smashed against his arm. The way his fingers twitch or his hair droops softly as the product in it wears off. He moves a little closer, watching Derek’s eyes move beneath the lids like he’s lost in a dream. Behind him, the sky has gone purple-pink. It makes the whole office glow, makes the stubble on Derek’s cheek shine like specks of glitter.

Moving to stand just over Derek’s shoulder, Stiles watches him sleep for a moment. He feels calm, breath mirroring Derek’s in a slow, steady rhythm.

“Derek,” Stiles calls softly, trying not to startle him. Hesitating briefly, Stiles drops a hand to the nape of Derek’s neck, scratching gentle fingers into the hair at the base of his skull. “Derek,” he says louder.

With a flutter of lashes, Derek wakes gradually. He hums under his breath, head pressing back into Stiles’ touch. When his eyes clear, he looks up and focuses on Stiles’ face, his expression still tender and sleepy. After a long period of stillness—Stiles still running a hand through Derek’s hair while they watch each other in the dying light—Derek seems to realize what he’s doing. He lifts his head up, rubbing at his eyes in an attempt to clear the fog from his little nap.

“I fell asleep,” he says dumbly. Stiles’ hand drops from his hair. When Derek turns to look up at him, there’s a crease down the side of his face from the sleeve of his shirt.

“You should head home, get some actual sleep,” Stiles says, voice strangely quiet. Derek yawns, the back of a hand going to his mouth to cover it. Stiles feels his hands clench unconsciously. Something crinkles, sounds like paper. He forgot he was holding the stupid muffin.

“I have to finish this first,” Derek is already turning back to his desk, trying to smooth out a fold he must’ve accidently made on one of the papers.

“I got you a muffin,” Stiles says inanely. He pushes the half-smashed bag of muffin on the desk, right next to Derek’s elbow. Derek stares at it confusedly, turning over his shoulder as if he’ll find some answers in Stiles’ face.

Maybe he does, because then he’s pulling it out from the paper bag, carefully peeling off the paper liner from the bottom. Stiles moves around the desk to sit in the chair across from him, going crazy with how bad he wants to put his hands back on Derek.

“I love banana nut,” Derek murmurs, splitting the muffin in half and meeting Stiles’ eyes evenly, “Thank you.”

Stiles nods, watching Derek pull off little pieces of muffin and slip them between his lips. He eats the bottom first. When there’s just the top left, he offers it to Stiles, eyes not saying anything that Stiles can understand.

“I had one earlier,” Stiles refuses, content to just watch Derek eat. The sky outside is darker now, only the subtle glow of light pollution and lit windows in the distance. When Derek finishes, he crumples the garbage up into a tight ball, tossing it into the trash can under his desk.

“You okay?” he asks, and Stiles realizes he’s been staring at Derek’s hands blankly. Derek looks concerned, eyebrows furrowed, but not severe the way they get during the workday.

“Just tired, I think,” Stiles lies, “I probably need a nap too.” He’s thinking about the curve of Derek’s neck—how it’s probably sleep-warm and spicy-smelling. He wants to bury his nose there and breathe in until he doesn’t know anything else except Derek.

When it’s been quiet for a beat too long, Stiles looks up, immediately meets Derek’s eyes. Stiles doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He feels unbalanced. He’s trying to figure out how he usually acts around Derek, and honestly can’t focus on anything past the way that the green in Derek’s eyes bleeds brown by the pupil, flecks of blue around the outside.

“Can I help?” Stiles gestures to the mess of paperwork. He puts a little more energy in his voice, but it comes out too exaggerated, like he’s a character on a children’s TV show.

Derek is silent, as if thinking hard on the answer, then, “You were right before, actually. I think I will head home and get some sleep.”

To Stiles, it sounds like a dismissal. Like all the times when Stiles has spent too long yapping to the plant, and Derek’s had to tell him to get back to work or had to remind him of some upcoming deadline. Stiles nods in understanding, leaves the room without looking at Derek. He packs up his stuff quickly, shoving everything into his bag so he can sneak out before he has to see Derek again.

He almost wishes he had just plugged the USB drive in while Derek was sleeping. He could’ve quit the next week and probably saved himself from the way his stomach feels like it’s turning itself inside out.

When he presses the button for the elevator, he hears Derek locking up his office behind him, jogging hurriedly on his way over as if he doesn’t want Stiles to get away from him. Stiles feels a weird sense of deja-vu when they enter the elevator. He remembers the first time they went out together with Erica, Isaac and Boyd. How he had thought about what it might be like to be in an elevator with Derek, alone.

He thinks they could kiss now. Thinks Derek would kiss him back, would like it even. But Stiles is scared. Mostly scared of what it’ll feel like when he can’t kiss Derek anymore—how much more it will hurt if he knows what he’s missing.

He thinks he could get to the laptop without having to sleep with Derek at all. He’s been building up all this trust between them for a reason. It would be better that way, probably. Less messy.

Derek keeps sending him worried glances. Stiles can see them out of the corner of his eye, but he just stares straight ahead, watches the floor numbers change as they move closer to the ground. In the lobby, Derek waves goodbye to security and keeps pace with Stiles, even though his pace is kind of an uncomfortably fast walk right now.

“Did you drive?” Derek asks, holding the door open for Stiles to pass through first.

“Subway,” he says, turning down the street to head in that direction. Derek calls out his name, but it’s not really even his name, so he just walks faster. There’s the sound of quick footsteps, then a hand grabs at the back of his shirt. The fabric bunches in a fist, a warm pressure right between Stiles’ shoulder blades. He stops abruptly—tells himself that it’s just because he doesn’t want to rip his shirt.

Derek is in his space, the extra inch of height he has lets him crowd into Stiles’ side, so he can see his face while he keeps his grip on his shirt. He is a warm line against the side of Stiles’ body.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Derek asks again, voice more serious than Stiles has every heard. He’s breathing hot against the side of Stiles’ face, so close he must be able to smell shampoo in the short fuzz of Stiles’ hair. People continue to pass them on the sidewalk, parting around them with ease. It’s crowded, in the way that New York City is always crowded. But it’s not bad, not like how it gets in the early morning, or lunchtime, or when work lets out for the day.

Stiles turns to Derek, not surprised at how their noses almost brush. He doesn’t think he’s okay, actually, but he doesn’t want to say that. He doesn’t exactly want to lie anymore either.

Instead, Stiles just ducks his head and fits himself against Derek, nose finding the soft skin of his neck like he wanted so badly earlier. He’s touching Derek from forehead to thigh, bodies curving into each other seamlessly, just sharing heat. It’s not exactly a hug on Stiles’ part, but Derek still has a fist pressed to his back, wraps another around his upper shoulders to pull him in tighter. When Stiles exhales, it’s shaky, but he feels better now.

“Let me drive you home,” Derek says, not dropping his hold on Stiles quite yet.

Stiles nods, tries to apologize, tries to explain himself in some way. Derek’s neck is hot from Stiles’ breath. He dips his head and rubs his nose on the collar of the shirt that he finds there, liking how it smells a little bit like fancy cologne. Glancing over Derek’s shoulder, Stiles sees the coffee shop across the street. It’s still lit up, and Scott is behind the resister, smiling goofily at an old woman while she orders.

“Come on,” Derek finally releases Stiles, turning toward wherever his car must be parked.

“Can we get coffee first?” Stiles bites his bottom lip, needing the familiar comfort of Scott right now, the tangible reminder that there is still at least one person who cares about Stiles, who knows him and likes him anyways, despite how absolutely fucked up his life is. Derek’s eyes soften, nodding and keeping a hand hovering at Stiles’ waist while they walk the short distance there.

At the resister, Scott smiles professionally, looking conflicted for half a second before he glances between them and says, “Hey Simon.”

It’s casual, as if they greet each other all the time. Stiles tries not to let his surprise show. Scott and _Simon_ are not exactly on a first name bases, have never been anything more than just customer and employee.

“Hey Scott,” Stiles says, just a beat too late. Derek is watching them with thinly veiled interest. 

“We should get lunch again the next time I have a day off,” Scott says, still smiling, but it’s just a little too tight. Stiles probably wouldn’t have even noticed, if he didn’t know Scott so well.

“Yeah, dude, just text me,” he says, leaning back into the warmth when Derek slings an obvious arm over his shoulder. Glancing from the corner of his eye, Stiles can see the hard clench of Derek’s jaw as he stares Scott dead in the face. He has to squeeze his lips together so he doesn’t laugh at what Derek must be thinking, at the message Derek’s clearly trying to send out. Something like _hands off, mine_. Scott doesn’t drop his smile, but his eyes flit between emotions—too quick for Stiles to read.

“So, what can I get you?” Scott says finally, laughing at himself, as if he’s so silly for even forgetting to ask.

There’s a bit of a scuffle when Stiles tries to pay and Derek pushes his money away, insisting that Stiles bought him a muffin so it’s all on him. Stiles shoves the cash in the tip jar anyways. They leave with warm drinks in hand and small waves to Scott. As they walk to Derek’s car, Stiles realizes that he feels better now. He’s a little confused after that interaction with Scott, a little worried about what it means, but Derek remains a solid presence at his side. An anchor when Stiles feels nonexistent, feels like less than a person, everything filling him just phony and meaningless. He hasn’t been playing a role with Derek, Stiles thinks. It hurt so much earlier because Stiles has let himself care—really care—in a way he never has before.

Stiles knows that it’s dangerous. He knows he should stop. Knows this even as he sidesteps a little closer to Derek so their shoulders brush together. At the contact, Derek glances over. He isn’t smiling exactly, but his eyes are soft. Soft like the pout of his sleeping lips in the gold setting sun light. Stiles thinks he will never forget the way Derek had looked at him right after he woke up—reverent, like Stiles was the only place he ever wanted to look, a sacred thing.

“So, can we just forget about how weird I was acting earlier,” Stiles tries, biting his lip and staring resolutely down the street in front of him, “I think it was just an unfortunate combination of, like, exhaustion and stress and caffeine withdrawal. It’s all groovy now.”

He sips at his latte as nonchalantly as he can.

There’s a thoughtful pause before Derek speaks, as taunting and sarcastic as ever, “We all need a hug sometimes, Simon. It’s okay to admit it.” He smothers his shit-eating grin against the plastic lid of his coffee cup. Stiles sputters, but regains his footing spectacularly fast. They’ve always been so good at mocking each other.

“Is there something you’re trying to tell me, boss? Because if you need a hug, all you gotta do is ask,” they turn into a parking garage, Derek leading Stiles past rows of parked cars, “And if I’m not good enough, I can offer recommendations. Boyd, for example. He is easily your most huggable friend.”

Derek presses a button on the car keys in his hand and the taillights flash on a shiny black—Stiles squints, takes a few steps closer—Camaro? Oh boy, he might be salivating a bit. Stiles squeezes next to the passenger side of the car, eyes going glossy while he admires the paintjob. The faint laugh lines on Derek’s face stand out in the fluorescent parking garage light, but he looks politely puzzled from across the top of the car.

“Friend? He works for me,” Derek slips into the driver’s seat, leaving Stiles frowning confusedly at empty air for a few seconds. The engine turns over and hums pleasantly while Stiles gets in the passenger seat.

“Wait,” he says, trying not to be too distracted by how the car sounds like it’s _purring_ , because this is like, a very important conversation, “You’re telling me you don’t hang out with Boyd for fun? Or Erica or Isaac? You’re saying you never go out with them and do non work-related things and joke around and socialize with them like a normal human being?”

Derek stares at him, eyes shadowed now that they’re inside the car. He has a hand on the gearshift like he was gonna pull out and start driving without addressing this very important topic at all.

“But,” Derek has this look on his face, like he’s reevaluating his entire existence. He doesn’t say anything else, just lets his eyes drift to some middle-distance near the glove compartment. Stiles lets him think on all that. It’s fine, it gives him time to blatantly look around the sexy interior of this sexy car. While sitting next to a sexy man. He sets his latte in the cupholder carefully. He’s fine.

When Derek finally meets his eyes again, looking positively shocked, Stiles smiles with all teeth. He pushes it down into something a little more sympathetic, “They’re your _friends_. You dummy.”

It’s almost sad how much Derek looks like a kid on Christmas morning, but guilty under all of it. Like he thinks he’s not deserving of friends or something. He puts the car in reverse and starts backing out, silent as usual, but in a more introspective way.

“’Kay, so for now I’m just gonna disregard how you somehow didn’t realize you had friends. We’ll put that on the back burner, come back to that on a better day when we can really unpack it and I can smack you in the face while not trapped next to you in an enclosed space.”

Derek is unfairly attractive, turned in his seat to watch for incoming cars out the back windshield. Stiles wants to bite at the soft dip under the hinge of his jaw. He wants to run his tongue over the scruff next to his mouth. “It’s not—I didn’t.”

Stiles watches him pull out and start towards the exit, his hands clenched on the wheel. Derek fumbles open his wallet, ears obviously a little pink even in the low light. He pulls out a credit card and pays for the parking spot he had all day. Stiles doesn’t even want to think about how much it must’ve cost.

As Derek settles back into his seat, Stiles realizes that he’s been leaning closer. His eyes are level with Derek’s earlobe, breath probably fanning over the pulsing heat of his neck. The neck that Stiles kinda had his face buried in earlier, jeez.

“They don’t hang out with you just because you pay them,” Stiles says, waiting for Derek to flinch at his proximity and surprised when he doesn’t. Derek must’ve been aware of Stiles, of his movements, of just how close he was now. “They like you, they like spending time with you. You’re fun to hang out with.”

Derek’s head moves like he just rolled his eyes. Stiles must know his mannerisms or something because all he’s looking at is the flushed curve of ear in front of him. Stiles sighs loudly, throwing himself back into his seat childishly.

“You’re the king of pity parties, Derek Hale,” Stiles sighs dramatically, “You’re literally so fucking awesome and you can’t even—”

Stiles cuts himself off, frowning at the break lights of the car in front of them. There’s traffic, because of fucking course. Derek doesn’t respond.

“Why do you drive anyways? It’s gotta be more convenient just to get a taxi?” Stiles changes the subject. He’s kind of grasping at straws in an attempt to make himself feel less awkward. He cracks open the window an inch, the air in the car is stifling.

“Sometimes I take a cab, but sometimes I drive. I like driving,” Derek says, looking a little more at ease now, which makes Stiles feel better.

“Yeah, this is great, very relaxing,” Stiles mutters, glaring as a car swerves to cut Derek off, someone honking for an unnecessarily long time behind them. Derek chuckles, so low it’s almost just vibrations that Stiles can feel deep in his gut.

“It’s better when you get out of the city. My sister has a place about 30 minutes away, out in the suburbs in Jersey. I go visit her sometimes when she’s not working,” Derek drives like he was born doing it, any tension in his body melting away until he’s nearly fused to the seat—a part of the car itself. Stiles realizes he hasn’t given the address to his apartment, so there’s a few minutes of directions given before the conversation can continue.

“Sister, huh? I didn’t know you had a sister.” It’s true. There wasn’t a whole lot of detailed information about Derek’s family, on Google or in the file.

“Two, actually.”

“Older or younger?”

“Both,” Derek smirks at Stiles, who has thrown up his middle fingers at the past three idiots who have passed them only to veer back into the lane right in front of them. Assholes.

“Ohhhh, you’re a middle child! That explains so much,” Stiles says, laugh stuck in his throat. Derek shoves at his shoulder, which turns into a brief tussle, equal parts playful and vicious. They’re both panting by the time they both give up on it, Stiles only surrendering because Derek needs to focus on the road.

“What about you,” Derek asks, breathless, “Any siblings?”

“Nope, only child,” Stiles says, freezing suddenly and letting his teeth snap down on his lip so hard it probably starts bleeding. Stiles didn’t even think about his answer before he said it. He’s racking his brain, trying to remember if the file ever said that Simon Hayes had any siblings. His mind is unhelpfully blank. Stiles hadn’t even— _God_ , he hadn’t even thought. He’s been acting so stupid and careless this entire time.

“Explains so much,” Derek says, teasing and cute—the way he always is. Stiles punches him in the shoulder halfheartedly, then stares out the window as if he is especially interested in the groups of dressed-up people stumbling down the sidewalk, the swanky clubs just opening for the night, bass heavy beat spilling outside. Derek allows the silence, which is both unsurprising and a blessing.

Stiles gives him a couple more directions, glad for the quiet and forcing himself to calm down while he listens to the low hum of the radio. The volume is turned down so much that it’s just a barely there buzz of classic rock.

“Right here,” Stiles points, and Derek pulls over illegally into a no-parking zone. Stiles has to make himself look at Derek, at his pretty stubbly face and broad shoulders. He’s looking at Stiles already, face unreadable like it sometimes gets around Stiles.

“Thanks for the ride,” Stiles pushes open the door, smiling and hoping it reaches his eyes. He’s so ready to crawl into bed and forget this whole day even happened.

“Simon,” Derek calls, before the door can shut between them. Stiles ducks to look back in the car and sees Derek holding out his latte, eyes sparking with something. Something Stiles wants to see again. Huffing, Stiles grabs the coffee cup. Their fingers brush for a moment.

“Have a good night,” Derek says, eyes never leaving Stiles’. Face feeling hot for some reason, Stiles nods shakily and closes the door. He’s a little unsteady on his feet, can feel Derek watching him from the car as he struggles to unlock the door to his building. Only once he’s finally—blessedly—inside, does Derek drive away.


	4. Chapter 4

“The Notebook or Mamma Mia?”

Stiles looks up from where he’s stuffing his face full of Doritos, eyes falling on Lydia, who holds a DVD case in each hand.

“Don’t you have anything else?” Stiles tries to say, but it’s garbled from the hunk of Dorito mush still in his mouth. Lydia looks unimpressed, raising her eyebrows almost as intimidatingly as Derek—the eyebrow king himself. It’s late afternoon on Saturday and she’s still in her sweatpants, face free of makeup in a way Stiles rarely gets to see.

Finally swallowing his mouthful of Nacho Cheese goodness, Stiles sighs, “Mamma Mia.”

He expected to be bombarded as soon as he arrived at Lydia’s apartment, fully preparing himself for long lectures and hours of reassuring her that he wasn’t getting distracted from the job. Instead, Lydia had pushed him towards the kitchen to make them some grilled cheese while she raided her own snack cabinet and pulled out her movie stash.

Lydia rolls her eyes and puts the movie in while Stiles organizes all their food on the coffee table by the couch. The menu screen for The Notebook pops up, which. _Ugh_. Sometimes Stiles wonders why he even likes Lydia. He tries to get her to notice him glaring at her, but she seems conveniently oblivious.

She turns the volume up just a bit too loud and settles in next to Stiles, taking a delicate sip of her sparkling water. After a while of just the movie playing, she finally speaks, eyes still trained on the television.

“I hope you know you aren’t alone in this,” her voice is low, barely loud enough to be heard over whatever Ryan Gosling is saying.

“I—I know that, Lydia. We’re a team,” Stiles is not really hungry, suddenly, “You can count on me to finish this.”

“That is not what I meant, Stiles.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything to that, can’t say anything. He stuffs his mouth full so he at least has an excuse for the silence. They go back to watching the movie for a bit. Stiles startles when he looks over at one point to see Lydia already watching him.

“I mean it. I’m with you. One hundred percent. I just need to know what you’re going to do,” she looks so serious in that moment, so ruthless.

Huffing, Stiles shifts around on the couch. He can’t get comfortable; Lydia’s eyes feel like they’re pinning him there. “What are you even talking about? I’m supposed to get to the computer so I can end this fucking thing and go home. For a bit, at least. Until I get the next call,” Stiles stares hard at the TV screen and doesn’t see a thing. He tries to make himself sound more confident, “I’m so close. Really. Don’t worry about it.”

Lydia studies him, completely disregards the stupid movie that she wanted to watch in the first place. Even her grilled cheese sits on the coffee table, untouched.

“I didn’t ask what you’re _supposed_ to do. I asked what you’re _going_ to do,” she pulls the bowl of Doritos into her lap with finality, as if that clarifies everything.

“What the hell’s the difference?”

Lydia doesn’t even bother responding, just grabs a single chip and examines it. She flips it so the side with more seasoning lands on her tongue when she eats it. She does this three more times, seemingly unaware of Stiles’ growing annoyance.

“You just said how much you want to end this whole thing,” she picks at her fingernails, trying to dig out the orange stuff now lodged under them, “I’m simply asking what you plan to do.”

It takes Stiles a second to understand what she’s trying to say without actually saying it, which is an art that Lydia has long perfected. The nonchalant way she’s acting seems like she’s been thinking about this, thinking about it a lot.

“Wh—are you implying that I… I what? Just walk away? Say fuck you to The Boss and go back to the regularly scheduled program? As if he would _ever_ allow that, Lydia, I can’t. I can’t just walk away. My—”

 _My dad_ , he wants to say. _Almost_ says. But he’s never told Lydia about that, the same way she’s never told him how she got into any of this. Stiles forgets sometimes how much they don’t know each other at all.

“Allison did. Her dad too.”

“Allison and Chris were a special case, and you _know_ it.”

They’ve somehow ended up turned on the couch to face each other, eyes locked in the most intense staring contest ever. Stiles spares a second to wish that this had just gone how he thought it was going to. Lydia would have chastised him, and he could’ve emphatically agreed with her and been on his way. Instead, Lydia has this expression that looks all wrong on her face, almost pleading.

“Stiles,” it comes out of her mouth like a whisper, “I’m _scared_.”

It’s the most honest thing she’s ever said to him, and he wills his face not to crumple. He doesn’t want to think about how much it probably took her to admit that. Lydia—the ice princess—was never _scared_. Stiles wants to question her intentions, wants to look for any place she might be putting on an act, bending him to her will like she’s proved she’s so competent at with others. It’s Lydia, though. And despite not knowing anything real about each other, Stiles trusts her implicitly.

“I—” Stiles struggles for words, struggles for a way to tell her that his own freedom from this hell means nearly nothing to him. Not compared to what else he could lose. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it, though. He wants it so bad his insides feel like they’ll burst right out of his skin.

“This is bigger than you,” Lydia says, sounding a little sharper, a little more like herself, “it’s bigger than me. Than all of us.”

“Exactly,” Stiles sighs. It’s too big. They’ll be eaten up, swallowed whole the moment they even step a toe out of line.

“No, Stiles. I have an idea,” she grabs one of his hands and _squeezes_ , “We have evidence, what we need is protection. Think about the resources that a successful company like Hale Co might have.”

She sounds insane for a moment, voice going thin. She can’t possibly want Stiles to ask _Derek_ for help.

“How could you even ask that of me, Lydia? I’m not bringing him into this—”

“He would _help_ , Stiles. He cares about you.”

“Yeah and I’m not taking advantage of that any more than I already have,” Stiles has shot off the couch, towering over Lydia. She doesn’t look afraid of his outburst, just shocked at the extent of his anger. She must realize then, how much Stiles wants Derek safe and happy and taken care of always. She must realize it, because her face falls, and she looks devastated. He attempts to soften his voice, “It’s not his responsibility. I’m not putting him in danger.”

Lydia has nothing else to say to that, so Stiles heads toward the door. He feels suffocated in her presence, can’t think straight after finding out how strongly she feels about this, _has_ felt about this for some time. While he’s shoving his feet back into his shoes, she appears around the corner. She looks strong, like she always does—hands at her hips and face impassive while she watches him. A perfect mask.

“Stiles,” she calls, there’s a crack in her voice that gives her away. Stiles can’t look at her anymore. He’s afraid of what he’ll see. She’s always been the strongest of them.

“Just think about it,” it comes out of her mouth sounding more like an order than a request. That alone gives Stiles the strength to nod and walk out the door.

-

And Stiles does think about it. His entire walk home he thinks about it. He would usually take the subway from Lydia’s, but he needs the fresh air. He has a tendency to turn random corners whenever he sees a dog—forever cautious about that stalking German Shepherd. He hasn’t seen the dog or the man since breakfast with Deaton, but Stiles likes to stay on his toes.

Stiles just—he doesn’t understand when Lydia started feeling like this. Has it been since the beginning? She’s so good at playing stoic, he never really realized that she might want to get out of all this just as much as he does.

He imagines having a normal life. Imagines working a real job he actually likes, having friends who call him by his real name. Visiting his dad whenever he wants to. He imagines kissing Derek, taking him out for dinner and telling him every secret he's ever had.

To think Stiles could have any of that is absolute madness. He’s been threatened enough to know that he could never get away with it, not without destroying everything he’s ever loved in the process. Allison and Chris only got out because they were family. The Boss could kill anyone but his own flesh and blood.

When Stiles finally gets back to his apartment, he finds Scott sitting against his front door. It’s startling, but he looks calm so it must not be an emergency. He pops up off the ground when he sees Stiles.

“How’d you get into the building?” Stiles asks, unlocking his door.

“A nice lady let me in. I think she’s your downstairs neighbor, so no more stomping,” Scott follows him in and shuts the door behind him, locking the deadbolt and then the door chain. He trails after Stiles to the kitchen, watches him grab a glass and chug a cup of tap water. Stiles fills it again and sips it slowly this time, staring out the tiny window over his kitchen sink. All he can see is the crumbling brick from the building next door. 

“What’s up,” Stiles asks, finally looking over at Scott. He doesn’t look worried or anxious or concerned about anything at all. He looks optimistic, in fact. Lighter than the last time Stiles saw him.

“Listen,” Scott scratches at the back of his head, “I’m only telling you this now cause I’m not sure when I’m… I’ve been talking to Allison again.”

“Oh,” Stiles feels his eyebrows shoot up before he can stop them. That wasn’t what he thought Scott was gonna say. Granted, he had no idea what to expect, but it was definitely not that. “I didn’t know you two still talked. After…”

 _After_. After they started seeing each other during a job, fell into some wild forbidden romance kind of love. After Allison and her dad got the chance to leave and she _did_ , leaving Scott alone and angry, but still not able to blame her for getting out while she could. None of them could blame her. It hurt, but any anger they had came from jealously that they couldn’t follow in her footsteps.

“Yeah,” Scott says, eyes stuck somewhere near Stiles’ feet, “We’ve been talking a lot. And she’s helping me get out.”

“What?” all the air in Stiles’ lungs feels like lead.

“She’s helping me get out, Stiles. Her and her dad,” Scott’s words speed up, spilling out fast from his excitement, “They’re getting a place set up for me, they’re handling everything. I’m not sure when I’m leaving, but I wanted to tell you now. Say goodbye and talk to you alone. It probably won’t be for a couple more weeks, but yeah.”

Stiles takes a large sip of water, has to force it down when his throat feels like it’s closing up.

“That’s,” Stiles’ voice cracks a little, “That’s awesome, Scott. I’m so happy for you, dude.”

“Really?” Scott looks relieved, like he thought Stiles was gonna be mad at him or something. He’s already moving in for a hug, big puppy smile filling his face. Stiles squeezes back tightly, probably tighter than he means to.

“Really,” Stiles says, belatedly. He thinks about his conversation with Lydia earlier. About her saying that she has a plan. “Actually, Lydia and I—”

Stiles can’t say it, though. He can’t tell Scott that they can find a way out of this, that they can do it together. Stiles is an asshole sometimes, but he isn’t selfish. No matter how much he wants to, he could never ask Scott to stay.

“We’re happy for you,” Stiles repeats, finally finishing his sentence, “Or, well, I am. And I know Lydia would be too.”

“Thanks, bro,” Scott is still hugging him, but lets him go with a few pats on the back, “I have to get going, but I just wanted to tell you in person. You—you be careful, okay?”

Scott looks worried for a moment but seems reassured by whatever he sees on Stiles’ face. Stiles leads him back to the door, clutching the now empty water glass to his chest. They say a brief goodbye, Scott waving charmingly over his shoulder. And then he’s gone.

It takes longer than it should for Stiles to lock up again. He doesn’t really know what to do with himself—just sits on the couch and stares at nothing. The next time Stiles is aware of anything around him, the sun is nearly done setting. He’s still holding that fucking empty glass.

Stiles fills it at the sink again, looking outside and trying to trace the brick pattern with his eyes, fighting against the slowly dying light. When it’s too hard to see anymore, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. It’s his Simon Hayes phone, not the burner. There’s a very small list of contacts on this phone—an even smaller list that he actually talks to.

Him and Lydia keep up a pretty constant stream of text messages as Simon and Lily, just to seem more authentic. Besides that, there’s only a stray text from Erica or Isaac every once and a while. There is one number, though, that he wants to call more than anything. He thinks he nabbed it from an email or document way back when he first started at Hale Co. He vaguely recalls seeing it and immediately saving it— _for emergencies_ , he convinced himself—under the name _Bossman_. It’s ringing before Stiles can even panic that it might actually be Derek’s office number or think about the fact that it’s a Saturday night and the guy could be _busy_.

“Yeah?”

Stiles’ heart feels like it’s thrashing against his ribcage. _God_ this was so stupid.

“Sorry—” he squeaks, “This was dumb, I don’t even know why I called, I just needed to talk to someone. But, oh man, you’re probably like, doing actual important things right now or something ugh, sorry!”

“Simon?”

“Yeah, I’m hanging up now, please don’t fire me. I’m hanging up, okay bye,” Stiles winces, trying to get his limbs to cooperate instead of shaking with embarrassment. He thinks he can hear Derek calling out again, though, so he hesitates.

“You don’t have to hang up,” Derek says.

“Oh.”

There’s a really long pause. Like, so long that Stiles thinks the call dropped for a second.

“ _Simon_ ,” Derek sounds like he’s gritting his teeth.

“What?”

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Aren’t you busy?” Stiles kinda hopes he’s busy because this is already the worst phone call ever.

“I’m watching House Hunters and eating Thai food. _Talk_.”

It’s probably not the best encouragement to get Stiles to talk because he’s suddenly assaulted with the image of Derek on his couch in cozy clothes, a carton of take out balanced in his lap and HGTV on the television, of all things. Stiles makes it worse by thinking about how maybe he’s barefoot and curled up under a fuzzy blanket or something. Definitely not conducive to talking because Stiles is _speechless_.

There’s a weird chewing noise like Derek has just continued eating or something while Stiles sits there in a pathetic state of silent shock. Stiles focuses on it, lets himself sigh out all the tension in his shoulders.

“You really do not have to listen to me ramble. The last thing I wanna do is interrupt your special Derek time,” which, _great_ , now Stiles is thinking about everything else that Derek might get up to in his special Derek time.

There’s no response to that, just that chewing sound still.

“Derek?” Stiles wanders back to his couch and collapses onto it.

“I’ve decided to ignore you whenever you’re being an idiot,” there’s a sound like the hiss and pop of a soda can being opened.

“But… You ignore me like seventy percent of the time anyways,” Stiles realizes that he forgot to turn any lights on, and wonders if getting up to walk the ten feet to the lamp is even worth it.

“My point exactly.”

Stiles tries to be offended, he really does, but all that comes out of his mouth is a surprised little laugh. He tries to hide the sound of his smile from his voice, “You’re such an ass. Literally the second biggest asshole in the world, only after me. I’m not sure why you even bother trying to compete—I am the asshole king, leader of the assholes.”

Derek coughs, emitting these breathy sounds like he’s _laughing_ at Stiles. Rude.

“Okay, are you six years old? You better not be laughing at my use of the word asshole, because _immature_ , dude. I meant that I am the king of _assholery_ , not the physical hole in the ass. Although I am pretty familiar with those too. God, don’t report me to HR please.”

“I’d never put my HR team through that torture.”

“And that is why you’ll never dethrone me,” there’s a lull in the conversation, but it’s comfortable. Derek eats and Stiles stares blankly into the dark, watching headlights occasionally cut across the ceiling. He can just barely hear the quiet sound of House Hunters playing on Derek’s end, just a low hum of television noise. “Thanks for not hanging up on me, though. I really have no idea why I called. I didn’t even know if this was your cell number, I just had no one else to talk to.”

There’s as assenting little hum, like Derek wants him to know that he’s listening.

“I just, I don’t know a lot of people here in New York. One of my closest friends here just told me he’s moving away, and I get it, I do. But I can’t help feeling kinda abandoned. Um—Lily and I got in a fight too. It was stupid. I mean, I was totally right, but it was still stupid.”

“You seem to have met a lot of new people at work.”

“Yeah, but that’s work. They’re all awesome, but like. I can’t really be my actual self around them,” and it hurts a little bit with how true it is. They can never know Stiles for who he really is. The silence on Derek’s end feels heavier for a moment.

“But you can with me? Is that why you—”

He doesn’t finish the question, but Stiles can imagine what he’s thinking. _Is that why you called? Is that why you’re trying to get so close to me?_

“Yes,” Stiles says, answering everything that Derek isn’t asking.

Derek doesn’t say anything to that. There’s the sound of him breathing into the phone, but he seems contemplative. It doesn’t feel awkward—Stiles has long grown used to the way Derek uses silence to his advantage, fully thinking through the words he wants to use while making everyone else in his presence just the tiniest bit uncomfortable and prone to blabbing. It’s probably what makes him such a good CEO.

It’s a good three minutes later before the sound of chewing returns. Stiles takes that to mean that Derek has no plans on saying anything at all. It’s cool, it’s not like Stiles was nervous about admitting that he’s comfortable around Derek or anything. Not at all. He definitely hasn’t been filled with a low level of panic for the entire past three minutes.

“What’s happening on House Hunters?” Stiles asks, only because there’s a limit to how long he can go without hearing the sound of his own voice.

“Tim wants a small house, close to work and fully renovated. Rebecca wants a guest room so her parents can visit, walk-in closet space and a bathtub. They’re currently arguing over laminate floors,” Derek sounds reluctantly amused, but drawling like he’s trying to convince Stiles he’s completely bored. Stiles doesn’t buy it.

“I bet you twenty bucks that they’ll go over Tim’s budget, but Rebecca will get everything on her wishlist.”

“Nice try,” Derek says, smile in his voice.

They talk for almost an hour. Not about anything remotely important. Mostly things like how Stiles is running low on Fruit Loops, or the last book they read, or how Stiles think the rats will take over one day, all Ratatouille-style. Derek seems content to mostly listen, huffing every so often when Stiles is especially ridiculous. It sends a little thrill up Stiles’ spine every time.

When Stiles finds himself slowing drifting off, head lolling against the back of the couch, he mumbles something about how he should be heading to bed.

“Thank you,” he says, uncharacteristically sincere, “You’re kinda awesome, you know.”

Derek laughs, half scoff, “No,” there’s a pause. Then, “Hey, you’re not alone here. Okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles can’t manage anything louder than a whisper. It’s the second time he’s heard something like that today.

“And. And talk to Lily. If it really was a stupid argument, then it doesn’t matter who was right.”

“Yeah, you’re—yes.”

They say bye and hang up, and Stiles already misses Derek’s breathing in his ear. He stumbles off the couch, trying not to stub his toe on anything. Once he has safely catapulted himself in bed, he shoves his jeans off, buries himself under his comforter and opens up his text thread with Lydia.

 _I’m sorry_ , he types. Presses send. _I’m sorry for getting so mad, I’m sorry that I can’t do it, not even for you_ , he doesn’t say. _I’m scared too_ , he can’t even bring himself to really think those words. He thinks Lydia already knows.

Stiles falls asleep still clutching his phone.

-

The annual Hale Co anniversary party is like, _actually cool_. Like, they have a DJ set up in the corner who doesn’t suck, and there’s an open bar by the break area. The party is split up between three whole floors, because they can’t exactly fit all the employees on the top level. Everyone is free to go to whatever floor they want, but it seems like most of the department heads are on the top level, and everyone else is crowded on the other two levels.

Stiles hopes they’re not too intimidated to come up here. He visits the other floors, just to check them out and say hello to everyone on his Research and Strategy team. The DJ on whatever floor this is keeps playing these weird country song remixes, but Stiles stays long enough to joke around with Danny from IT and polish off a rum and coke.

He orders another one as soon as he gets back to the top floor. He wanders over to where Lydia is talking to Kira, nudging her with his elbow good-naturedly. Him and Lydia are fine now, probably would’ve been fine even if they hadn’t apologized to each other. She rolls her eyes at him and continues with his conversation as if he doesn’t exist. Typical.

Stiles has been trying hard not to look at Derek too much tonight. He just looks so _good_ —tie from the work day removed and hair a little looser. They’re been acting normal around each other all week, but Stiles still feels like something has shifted inside him. He likes Derek a lot. Too much. It’s probably making him seem jumpy, the way he talks more but says less, gets distracted by strange things.

There’s a weird flurry of excitement across the room, where Derek has been drifting between a few loose circles of already-tipsy people, a silent and relaxed observer. Stiles has already met his uncle, completely accidently while they were both at the bar. He’s a little creepy, honestly. Stiles isn’t sure if he’s just become more accustomed to Derek’s stoicism that Peter’s outward charm seems too intense, but either way he got major creep vibes. Stiles spares a second to thank the universe that Derek was the CEO now, and Stiles didn’t have to be seducing Peter right now.

“Looks like the entire Hale family is here now,” Kira says, bright-eyed in the way that she always is. Stiles looks closer at the crowd across the room with interest. There’s a lot of dark-haired, beautiful people, so it’s a little overwhelming. Stiles’ eyes find Derek easily.

He’s next to a younger girl, absolutely striking and with a snarky look on her face. She’s gotta be his sister. It only further proves Stiles right when she starts telling a story to the group around her animatedly. She gestures to Derek, like she’s talking about him, and his ears go pink. After her next sentence, his cheeks flood with color too. Stiles is almost sad he’s missing whatever embarrassing story she’s telling about him.

Derek looks over and his eyes lock with Stiles, catching him staring. For a second, neither one moves. Then they’re both stepping towards each other, leaving their groups behind. Derek doesn’t even say anything to his sister, doesn’t even look at her. They snake around a few desks that are between them, meeting in an empty pocket of space smack dab in the middle of the room. Stiles can’t take his eyes off Derek.

“I might have to ask her to repeat her story, only so I can see what made you so embarrassed,” he finally says, looking up at Derek just the smallest bit with how close they’re standing to each other.

“Don’t encourage her,” Derek chastises, lifting his drink to his lips. It looks like a couple fingers of scotch maybe, in a glass tumbler, not the cheap Solo cups that everyone else has. Stiles has a thought that Derek must have a secret stash of expensive alcohol in his office or something, one that Stiles has failed to discover. It’s kind of a sexy thought.

“Your family seems fun,” Stiles sips his drink, in an effort to fix the desert that is currently his esophagus.

“Until you meet them.”

“I did have the fortune of meeting your uncle,” Stiles says slowly, watching how Derek’s face goes wary, like he knows Peter is routinely a creep, “He complimented the fit of my pants.”

The expression on Derek’s face turns all the way up to _mortified_ , “I am _so_ sorry about him.”

Stiles snorts. He has to, with the way Derek is blushing again. He has never been so easy to make uncomfortable before. It must be the presence of his family.

“No,” Stiles said, garbled on a laugh, “It was very… flattering.”

Derek makes a groaning growl sound, hand pressing against his face like he wants to smother himself.

“Really,” Stiles says with shaking shoulders, “I’ve never gotten such a thorough once-over before. It was impressive.”

Derek groans louder, shoulders hunching up to rest somewhere near his ears. Once Stiles gets his breath back from the uncontrollable wave of laughter, he just looks at Derek, smile bitten between his teeth. There’s a little pink peeking out from underneath Derek’s stubble. He looks good, looks softer than usual. Stiles grabs hold of his wrist, the one connected to the hand still trying to cover his face. Stiles tugs at it, but Derek doesn’t budge.

“Derek,” he says, pulling harder. It does nothing, even when he puts his weight into it a bit. “Derek, let me look at you.”

That gets his attention—head snapping up from his hand, eyes wide like he thinks he misheard Stiles. They’re so close that when Derek’s eyes drop to his lips, Stiles knows he didn’t imagine it.

“Derek,” says a voice next to them.

Suddenly, Derek is standing back at a respectable distance, wrist yanked from Stiles’ grasp and face neutral. His blush is gone, leaving him looking almost pale now. He sips his drink slowly, like he’s trying to calm himself down before addressing the person. Stiles does the same. He feels like his whole body is on fire.

“Laura,” Derek says finally, looking at the woman but not exactly meeting her eyes, “This is Simon, new head of the Marketing Research and Strategy department. Simon, this is my sister Laura.”

She’s clearly a Hale—sleek, dark hair and quick eyes. She’s beautiful, really. A few laugh lines by her eyes tell Stiles that she’s probably a little older. She looks well put together, rocking the whole power suit thing. There’s a distinct holster on her hip that Stiles stares at for a beat too long. He swallows unconsciously.

“Nice to meet you,” Stiles says, sounding surprisingly composed. She smiles at that, but it doesn’t exactly meet her eyes. She looks calculating, studying him closely. Looks like she’s about to eat him alive.

“You too, Simon. I’ve heard good things,” she responds smoothly. Derek shifts a little uncomfortably. Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t exactly know what she’s trying to say. For the sake of his sanity, he takes it for the compliment that it is at face value.

“That’s reassuring,” he says with a light voice. He glances back to the gun on her hip without meaning to, “Are you a cop?”

The second drink is making his tongue a little loose. He meant to sound simply curious, but it has a weird edge to it that he hopes Derek and Laura don’t notice. She studies him, as if thinking about whether he is worthy of an answer.

“I’m in law enforcement,” she concedes. From his peripheral, Stiles sees Derek drain the rest of his drink, throat bobbing with it.

“That’s cool, my—”

 _My dad is a sheriff_ , Stiles almost says. He thinks maybe he should have stuck to just water, like Lydia. He’s forgetting himself. Or, forgetting to not be himself, rather.

“My dream job was always to work in law enforcement, when I was a kid,” Stiles finishes lamely. It’s not even a lie.

Laura raises a brow, Hale-style. Even Derek is looking at him, his gaze intense.

“Then what brings you here?” she asks, voice a little derisive. Stiles gets the impression that it’s not all directed at him, though. That Laura isn’t the biggest fan of her family’s company.

“Just because you don’t like the company doesn’t mean it’s not a great place to work,” Derek saves him from coming up with a response. They bicker for a bit, sounding more and more like siblings as they go on. Stiles is glad that the attention is no longer on him, he needs to just breathe without feeling like he’s being examined. He thinks that Laura might be trying to play the protective big sister role, intimidating any potential threats to her little brother’s heart. It’d be cute if it wasn’t so on the nose.

Eventually, Laura’s gaze returns to him, sharp as ever. “It was great to meet you, Simon. Just wanted to introduce myself,” she takes half a step back, then looks at Derek, jerking her chin at an empty corner of the room, “Can I talk to you?”

It doesn’t exactly bode well, but Stiles excuses himself, gives them some privacy. He tosses his empty cup—he’d finished his drink without even realizing. He thinks he should probably find Lydia, maybe even hit the road before he ends up doing something really stupid, like kissing Derek’s handsome face.

Instead, he notices that Derek’s office door is cracked open, so he slips inside before anyone has a chance to notice. He shuts the door behind him, very softly. It’s dark with the lights off, but there’s enough residual light peeking through the closed blinds from the rest of the floor and coming in from outside the big windows, from the city all around them.

Derek’s laptop is on his desk, but Stiles ignores it, grabbing the bottle of scotch that sits next to it. He uncorks it and tosses the cap back onto the desk. The city looks unreal at night. They’re not the tallest building in the vicinity, but they’re still up there. It seems like there’s millions of windows lit up in the distance, millions of flashing headlights and 24-hour store fronts and street lamps glowing gold. It looks like a whole galaxy, like a sky full of stars, full of bodies orbiting.

Stiles moves closer. Next to the plant—now double in size from the day Stiles first saw it. He rubs his thumb over a waxy leaf with one hand, the other bringing the bottle to his lips so he can take a swig. He probably shouldn’t drink more, but it goes down smooth, lands warm in his belly. It’s nice in here. It’s quieter, and safe.

After some time, the door opens—a sharp increase in noise before it goes muffled again with a click. There’s a pause. Stiles doesn’t acknowledge the person, just keeps looking out at the city, bustling with life still, keeps rubbing at that leaf, trying to stop himself from bringing the bottle back to his lips.

Eventually, there’s soft footsteps, dragging on the carpet. Stiles listens to them, follows them as they round the desk and stop right at his side. He can see that it’s Derek, with his strong jaw, his body and the way that it moves. The way it orbits Stiles always.

They look out at the city together. When Derek steals the bottle out of Stiles’ hand, he holds it up, but doesn’t drink yet. “I’m hoping that after this, I won’t have to apologize to you for any more of my family members,” he says, lips a centimeter from the mouth of the bottle. He sips, voice going deeper with the burn from it, “I’m sorry about Laura. She—”

He cuts off, doesn’t finish or explain or say anything else about it. Maybe it’s because he can’t, or he doesn’t have anything else to say, or maybe it’s because Stiles is shaking his head, frowning at the sidewalk, dozens of feet below him.

“You don’t have to do that,” Stiles says, listens to the clink of glass as Derek puts the bottle back on his desk. “If anything, she just got me thinking about—all this. Like, what the hell I’m even doing here.”

Derek has turned away from the windows. Stiles knows because he can feel when Derek looks at him, looks at him like this city is nothing, like Stiles is the only universe he wants to pay attention to right now.

“It’s such bullshit,” Stiles continues, voice picking up some more power, “I shouldn’t be here at all. I’ve just been _waltzing_ around this place. As if I didn’t know how I was fucking _lucky_ that you ever even gave me two _seconds_ of your time. Time that I don’t deserve any of.”

Derek recoils, like he’s surprised at the outburst, like he’s trying to riddle it all out, make it make sense. He’s turned fully towards Stiles now, standing perfectly perpendicular.

“You,” Derek sounds unsure of himself, “You’re wrong. And you’re. You’re good at your job.”

Stiles laughs, just once and a little meanly. He doesn’t mean for it to come out like that and tries to soften it with a sigh. Derek doesn’t even _know_. He has no idea.

“You’re not even the first person to tell me that,” Stiles thinks of Deaton, months ago next to the ocean. Thinks of his friends, the only constants in his life and still complete mysteries to him. And he thinks of the man who did this, who made him into this, who threatened to take away everything he ever cared about, hollow eyes praising him for ruining lives so _well_. “But it’s like—like, maybe I don’t even wanna do this anymore.”

Derek seems to be considering that, head tilted and watching. Stiles can’t look at him, but he can imagine his expression. The heavy furrow in his brows. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Simon.”

Stiles _laughs_ , bitterly. He cuts it off before he can hurt Derek’s feelings, but it’s just so horribly funny. If only he knew, if only he knew just how wrong he is. Stiles feels his throat getting tight, thinks that maybe he shouldn’t have had that sip of scotch in the first place. It’s making him sad-drunk. Overly emotional and impulsive.

He looks at Derek then, because he doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t know how to stop himself anymore. And Derek is beautiful, always has been beautiful. Wherever his face is not deeply shadowed, it glows an eerie blue-orange from the city lights. He doesn’t even look deterred from Stiles laughing earlier—just looks proud, and strong, and eternal. Stiles wants him more than anything and he tells himself that no one can ever know.

Whatever Stiles’ face is doing, it feels miserable. He doesn’t know how to mask the way he feels completely _destroyed_. Derek is so close to him, such a tempting wall of heat and support. When Derek leans the tiniest bit closer, Stiles’ breath hitches, gets stuck somewhere on the way in and the sound is deafening in the shrinking space between them.

When Derek pushes him back against the wall of windows and kisses him, Stiles is not surprised.

He wraps his arms around Derek’s neck, holding tight and arching his body up. He wants the gap between them gone. Derek grabs his hips, hands tender and thumbs rubbing in tiny circles on the bone. The kiss is a wild thing—all teeth and trying to get so close to each other that their noses smash painfully. Stiles doesn’t care, he wants Derek even closer, wants to breathe in Derek’s skin forever.

“Sorry,” Derek pulls back gasping, but Stiles doesn’t let him go, keeps him talking right into Stiles’ mouth, “I—Can I—”

“Yes,” Stiles says, almost sobbing the word, “ _Yes_.”

Their mouths meet again, or never really left each other. When Derek drags his tongue sluggishly against Stiles’, they both groan, almost in sync. Derek’s hands slide up Stiles’ body, over his torso and then around to his back. One hand reaches up to the back of Stiles’ head, combing through his hair until he goes a little boneless. Stiles has never felt safer than when Derek has his arms around him.

Leaning his weight forward a little too hard, Stiles makes Derek stumble back. His desk stops him, and he sits on the surface of it, holding Stiles tighter. The new position has Stiles looking down at Derek, framed between his thighs. He takes a moment to admire the puffy lips and half-closed eyelids on the man in front of him. He’s blocking most of the light coming in from inside, but Derek’s eyes are still shining somehow. Stiles runs a hand over his stubble, it’s just a little rough, but not painful. He kisses the other cheek, leaves his lips there and drags them up the line of his jaw. They’ll probably be ruined by the end of this—swollen and rubbed raw. 

They’re both calming down, still panting but slower now. Stiles drops his face, buries it against the side of Derek’s neck. It’s all smooth there, and every nerve ending in Stiles’ lips throbs when he pecks it, just once. Derek pulls him in tighter.

“Do you,” Derek hesitates, voice muffled a little in Stiles’ hair, “Do you want to—”

“Yes,” Stiles says, interrupting.

When Derek chuckles, his chest shakes with it, little bursts of laugh making his throat vibrate, “I didn’t even finish my question.”

Stiles waits, the most patient he’s ever been in his life.

“Come home with me?” Derek asks eventually, his head tilting so he can mouth at the curve of Stiles’ ear.

When Stiles pulls back and kisses him straight on the lips, his teeth peeking out from the smile he can’t tamp down, it’s answer enough. 


	5. Chapter 5

Once they manage to pull themselves away from each other, Derek tells him to meet him down in the lobby, says he needs to pack up a few things and say goodbye to his family. Stiles manages to sneak out of Derek’s office, grab his bag and is almost to the elevator before guilt makes him find Lydia just to let her know he’s heading out. He thinks his face is probably still flushed unattractively, so he tries to make it quick before anyone notices how debauched he looks.

Lydia does narrow her eyes at him suspiciously, but lets him go. He has to act like he’s in a hurry to avoid being interrogated by Isaac and Erica. The latter of which is lounging in someone’s desk chair, pregnant belly swollen an almost scary amount. Boyd is behind her, still in his security uniform and massaging her shoulders idly with one hand.

Stiles takes the stairs—too much built up energy in his body and not willing to risk being dragged into a conversation while he’s waiting for the elevator. He didn’t realize how many fucking stairs this building had. The lobby is nearly silent once he breaks free from the stairwell.

He waves to the night security and steps outside, leaning against the glass right next to the door. It’s easier to breathe out here, and he’s been having trouble catching his breath ever since Derek kissed him. Now that he’s letting himself process everything, Stiles kinda feels like shit. Derek deserves better than the load of lies and drama that comes along with Stiles. And neither of them has been thinking clearly. What will people think when they see Derek leaving right after Stiles? It’ll look inappropriate for Derek if anyone finds out, and the last thing Stiles wants to do is get him in trouble.

Stiles’ overthinking doesn’t stop until the door opens and Derek slides out, briefcase in hand.

“I thought you’d left,” he says, lips looking pinker than usual, even in the dark. Stiles can’t speak, just shakes his head and tries to memorize the thick line of Derek’s lashes. There’s a stilted pause between them, almost uncomfortable, or uncertain.

“I called the driver,” Derek uses his briefcase to gesture to a dark car that has been idling in front of the building for a while. He’s looking at Stiles a little worriedly, so Stiles makes the executive decision to stop thinking so much. It’s clearly throwing Derek off, and it’s making Stiles feel anxious too. He thinks about how easy it was to just be in Derek’s arms earlier, and he wants that ease back.

“A driver?” Stiles smirks, all snark, “Well, well, well, aren’t you Mr. Fancy Pants?”

Derek rolls his eyes, seemingly more relaxed now that they’re back to mocking each other like they usually do.

“It’s the Hale family driver, jackass,” Derek pushes his shoulder towards the car, big hand lingering and hot through Stiles’ shirt. That doesn’t really make Sties think he’s any less of a Mr. Fancy Pants.

The car is nice as fuck. Stiles has been in a lot of rich guy’s cars, and this is definitely one of the nicest. It’s not trying to show off too much, which is key. There’s some soft jazz station playing on the radio that the driver turns up louder once they’re both buckled in. Derek is sitting right next to Stiles, but he feels almost far away, compared to how close they had been earlier.

Stiles reaches a hand over to rest on his knee. It’s completely innocent, just an attempt to feel Derek’s body heat, to feel him alive and real underneath his touch. Derek puts his hand right over Stiles’, squeezing slightly. The angle’s not quite right to slot their fingers together, but it’s enough.

They don’t talk. There’s not exactly traffic, but Derek must live on the other side of Manhattan or something, because they drive for a while. Stiles goes a little drowsy, watching the city pass by. He’s crashing from all the adrenaline he experienced earlier, and the alcohol probably doesn’t help. He feels perfectly sober now, just fighting against the way his eyes want to droop in exhaustion. He scoots to the side a bit, seatbelt restricting but giving him enough slack that he can lay his head on Derek’s shoulder.

Derek’s breathing slows, like he’s trying not to disrupt Stiles by moving too much. He leans his head to the side, resting it on top of Stiles’. He’ll probably get a crick in his neck if he stays like that for long, but he doesn’t move. Just falling into a peaceful rhythm of measured inhalations and street lights caressing their skin as they drive past.

When the car stops, Stiles barely notices. He feels like he’s half in a dream, all watery blue moonlight and calm waves of breath.

“We’re here,” Derek murmurs, right against the soft crest of his hairline. That does get Stiles’ attention, and he sits up fully, blinking blearily. Derek pulls him out of the car with a thanks to the driver, hand on the small of his back the whole time. The building they walk towards is beautiful—a little older, but charming, and right across the street from Central Park.

It’s a gorgeous home. Stiles immediately loves it. Loves the warm lights and the leather couch and the real hardwood floors. It’s all an open floor plan, kitchen flowing into a breakfast nook, which flows into a living room full of ceiling-height bookshelves. There are a couple doors down a short hallway—probably the bedroom and a bathroom. It’s big for New York City, which is still just the smallest bit too cramped, but Stiles thinks it’s perfect. The whole place smells like expensive candles and _Derek_.

“Anything to drink? Water?” Derek asks, slipping his shoes off and dropping his keys into a bowl by the front door. Stiles is distracted by his feet in socks for a moment.

“Water would be great,” he takes his own shoes off, leaving his bag right next to them and going to check out a small window seat next to the bookshelves. It looks like it overlooks Central Park. Derek unloads his briefcase all over the small table by the kitchen, laptop and files stacked a bit precariously. He comes back to Stiles with a glass of water held in each hand.

Stiles takes one and drinks it all in one sip, eyes never leaving Derek until the glass is empty. Derek sips his slower, but he’s watching Stiles too.

“This place is incredible,” Stiles says, finally.

“Really?” Derek is smiling, looking almost _bashful_ , “Thanks. Yeah, I was lucky to find it.”

 _I was lucky to find you_ , Stiles wants to say. But it feels like a lie for some reason, feels like something he doesn’t have the right to say.

Derek drains the rest of his water and nods at Stiles’ empty glass, “More?”

Stiles shakes his head, lets Derek take the glass back and walk to the kitchen. Stiles can’t take his eyes off of Derek, watches him put the glasses in the dishwasher and wipe down the countertop with some lemon scented cleaner. It’s so domestic, he wants to cry a little. He also wants to get down on his knees for Derek right in the middle of the kitchen, but like, also cry.

“You are unreal, man,” Stiles says, shaking his head. He’s feeling less tired the more he focuses on just how fucking perfect Derek is. Derek, who has turned to look over his shoulder, all confused. Stiles keeps shaking his head, “You’re just so—like, what the fuck.”

Stiles turns to pace the short line of the living room, walking around in aimless circles and looking at anything but Derek, because he’s trying to say something dangerously honest and can’t handle any eye contact right now, “You’re literally so gorgeous, like I bet people have _fainted_ over how beautiful you are. And you’re so smart, so good at your job and quick on your feet. And you’re just a _good_ person, just so— _ugh_. You make me laugh all the time, and you put up with the constant nonsense coming out of my mouth. And now you’re standing there in your _socks_ , and it’s like, I can’t even look at you you’re so perfect.”

Stiles finishes, staring hard at one of the bookshelves. Derek has a lot of books. He must read pretty often, which only makes Stiles even _more_ infatuated, what the fuck. The room has gone silent, just random city-noise filtering in through the walls. Derek’s soft footsteps move from the kitchen and through the living room until he’s just behind stiles, standing so close there’s a physical heat radiating off his body.

“I can take my socks off? If that would help?”

He’s teasing, the little shit. Stiles spins around, adjusting quickly to their proximity and smacking Derek on the chest playfully. He thinks he’s grinning, but can’t be bothered to try and cover it up. Derek is smiling too, just looking so _good_ , he’s glowing with it.

“That would make it worse. Removing any more clothing would definitely be worse,” Stiles realizes he still has a hand on Derek’s chest and starts rubbing at one of the buttons on his shirt, highly temped to undo it. Derek’s hands find his hips, untucking Stiles’ shirt until he can touch skin.

“Is that so?” Derek has the audacity to look smug. That ass. He’s leaning closer and Stiles refuses to be intimidated and back away, back away probably against the bookshelves or some other hard surface. Stiles is already getting the impression that Derek likes shoving him against hard surfaces. So Stiles stands his ground, chin jutting out stubbornly. It really only results in Derek’s lips meeting his faster, so actually it was a good call on Stiles’ part.

They kiss, somehow deeper and more overwhelming than before. Stiles wasn’t sure that’d be possible, but Derek is everywhere. His hands don’t stop moving, sliding up under Stiles’ shirt, spread wide over his spine or flirting over his stomach. The smell of him is everywhere too—all musky and warm, like smoking firewood.

Stiles is so distracted that he doesn’t even notice Derek has been pushing him the whole time. They’ve done a sharp little U-turn, all so Derek can maneuver Stiles to the couch, shove him with an arrogant little grin until he falls backwards against the cushions. Stiles bounces when he lands, hands impulsively gripping Derek’s shirt to steady his fall. One of the buttons towards the top pops off, bouncing somewhere off to the side.

Stiles laughs heartily, can’t even help it after seeing the stunned, almost outraged look on Derek’s face. Derek drops his weight right on top of Stiles, hands catching himself so he doesn’t hurt him, but body unforgiving. He’s a solid, heavy weight, covering Stiles like he’s trying to bury him in between couch cushions. Derek reconnects their lips, lets Stiles’ laughs die right in his mouth.

Stiles tries to get some leverage, bucking his hips up to dislodge, to make this a little less easy for him. Derek doesn’t budge, just presses himself down harder. Stiles lets his hands roam up to Derek’s hair, tugs on it until it’s mussed up and fluffy. Derek responds with a little nibble on his neck, which makes Stiles all too aware of how tight his pants have become.

This time Stiles bucks up for a completely different reason, not quite satisfied with the lack of control he has over any of their hip-action right now. He wraps his legs around Derek, pressing his feet into Derek’s calves. The movement slots their hips together, and Stiles feels his dick press against the hot, hard line in Derek’s own pants. They moan together, Stiles rolling his whole body in an attempt to find some friction. Derek must be teasing him, or too distracted with kissing the life out of him. Either way, Stiles won’t allow it, not when he can _feel_ Derek, can almost imagine him _throbbing_.

Removing his hands from Derek’s hair, Stiles drops them to his underarms, tickling. It’s over the shirt, but Derek still flinches, snorting and scrambling to stop the attack. Stiles absently notes that he is _hella_ ticklish and tries to grind up against Derek’s squirming body. Derek grabs his wrists finally, pinning them down next to Stiles’ head, the fingers twitching like he’s still got them dug into Derek’s armpits. The hold Derek has on Stiles’ wrists does interesting things to how their bodies line up, distributing more of his weight down right where Stiles wants it.

“Oh, _nngh_ ,” Stiles rolls his hips up into a desperate grind, feeling it all the way up his spine. Derek groans, just as incomprehensible, and licks into Stiles’ mouth. His body finally moves, a slow rock backwards and forwards that drags their cocks together ruthlessly.

Stiles is so close, bites at Derek’s bottom lip and rolls his hips up almost frantically. He’s out of breath with how hard he’s moving himself against Derek. Stiles can feel Derek’s hands squeeze in uncontrollable little pulses against his wrists. A small, choked off noise comes out of Derek’s mouth, and he buries his face in Stiles’ neck—stubble rubbing the skin there raw.

Derek is trembling, shaking all over as his thrusts speed up, almost bruising with the pressure. His hips twitch forward, once, twice then for a much longer, shaky third time. He groans so low, his chest vibrates, and he stills, weight falling a little heavier over Stiles.

Stiles, who hasn’t slowed down at all, almost hysterical with how close he is. Derek pulls his hips back for a moment, which makes Stiles _sob_. The pressure is replaced before he can voice his complaint, though—the heel of Derek’s palm pressing down hard, catching on the head of Stiles’ dick on a particularly aggressive thrust up. Stiles uses his now free hand to grab hard at Derek’s shoulder, trying to pull him down closer. Derek stays hovering, though, watching Stiles’ face intently, in a way that makes Stiles’ cheeks flood with heat. Stiles bites his lip hard, squeezing his eyes closed tight and almost gasping in shock when Derek grinds his hand down hard.

“F— _fuck_ —"

Stiles’ back arches, his dick twitching and pants flooding with the warm wetness of his come. He slowly sinks back into the couch, still shaking and trying to unclench all the muscles that he has somehow managed to lose control of. When Derek melts into him, covers his body like a big blanket, Stiles finally remembers that he had closed his eyes. He pries them open and meets Derek’s immediately, leaning up to kiss him, closed-mouthed and sweet.

Derek is looking at him with this soft gaze, eyes glassy and cheeks stained pink. He’s got this cocky, self-satisfied smile on his face that really shouldn’t make Stiles want to kiss him more, but it so _so_ does.

Stiles shifts a little uncomfortably, the mess in his pants starting to feel gross.

“Ugh,” he says, voiced _ruined_ , “Whose idea was it to be wearing pants for that?”

Chuckling, Derek pecks the corner of Stile’s lips. “You’re the one who said you couldn’t handle me taking off more clothes,” he tilts his head at Stiles, eyes wide with faux-innocence.

Stiles shoves at Derek, rolling him off the couch and right onto the floor in retribution.

-

Once Stiles has control of his limbs again, he allows Derek to pull him towards the bathroom.

“Towels, soap, shampoo,” Derek points out where everything is, standing next to Stiles in the cramped little bathroom. He squeezes lightly on Stiles’ waist, moving back to the door, “Help yourself.”

“You don’t wanna join me?” Stiles asks, half teasing. Stiles has never showered with anyone before. It seems like it’d be really intimate, and he’s worried for a second that Derek might actually agree.

“Maybe next time,” Derek says, running his nose up Stiles’ cheek, over his eyebrow. Pressing a barely-there kiss to the corner of Stiles’ eye, he leaves the bathroom and shuts the door between them. _Next time_.

Stiles showers quick, only meandering a bit to smell all of Derek’s fancy soaps. In the sink, he tries to scrub his now-crusty underwear a bit, wringing them out and balling them up in his other dirty clothes. He should probably be taking better care of these, considering they’re work clothes, but Stiles really doesn’t give a shit. Not if it means he gets to roll around with Derek again soon.

He borrows some mouthwash he finds next to the sink and wraps a towel tight around his waist before stepping out the door. There’s a light on in the room across the hall, so Stiles shoulders his way in, finding Derek staring at the sky out the window. It must be his bedroom, bed halfheartedly made and taking up most of the room. Derek turns when he hears Stiles come in. He’s still in his clothes from before, which must feel absolutely disgusting by now.

“Borrow whatever you want, I’ll just be a few minutes,” Derek points to a dresser that lines the opposite wall and slides past Stiles towards the bathroom, giving his bare chest an appreciative once-over.

Stiles wanders to the dresser, dropping his dirty clothes in a tiny heap right next to it. The first drawer he opens contains rolled up boxers, so Stiles grabs a pair towards the back of the drawer—covered in an obnoxious plaid pattern. He slides them on and then rubs his towel over his hair instead, trying to get it to stop dripping on his neck. The next drawer has socks, but the one below it is stuffed with t-shirts, most of them plain black or grey. He grabs one and slips it on, trying not to think about how big it feels on him.

He’s not sure what to do with his towel now, so he just drops it on top of his clothes. There are a few picture frames on top of the dresser, filled with happy, smiling faces. There’s one that looks like the entire Hale family, extended and all. They need three whole rows just to fit in the frame. Stiles spots Derek squished somewhere in the middle, looking younger but still just as handsome. He’s grinning, which makes Stiles’ breath catch in his throat. Another photo near that one looks like Laura and the other sister from tonight. They’re both mid-laugh, the younger sister sticking her tongue out at the camera.

Stiles wanders over to the nightstand, thumbing through the book that sits on it. It’s some mystery about a murder, dogeared page about halfway through. There’s another framed photograph there too. Stiles picks it up and sits on the edge of the bed so he can examine it. This one has Derek and both his sisters, along with an older couple—probably their parents. They’re all incredibly attractive, with dark hair and sharp bone structure. Derek’s dad is greying a little around his temples, but it suits him. Stiles wonders if Derek’s hair will do the same when he’s a little older.

Derek isn’t grinning in this one, but his eyes are still crinkled, and he looks comfortable. Laura has an arm wrapped around his neck, almost a chokehold, and Derek has a white-knuckle grip on the arm with one of his hands. The other sister has her head thrown back, clearly amused by Derek’s struggling.

Derek walks back into the room, surprising Stiles. He flinches and hurries to replace the photo, sitting up straighter afterwards as if he can pretend like he wasn’t just snooping.

“It’s okay,” Derek laughs, hair soaking wet and pushed back, “You’re allowed to look at that.”

In an effort not to fall into some kind of trance just staring at Derek’s abs and broad chest, Stiles looks back at the picture. He’s not really focusing on anything this time around, but Derek has slid some sweatpants on under his towel and thrown a few things in a hamper in the corner. He picks up Stiles’ towel too and hesitates before grabbing his clothes off the floor. Stiles really hopes his gross underwear is hidden away enough between his shirt and pants.

“You should really dry-clean these,” Derek says, making a face like he wants to hang them up and bring them to the dry cleaners himself.

“They’re from Goodwill,” Stiles shrugs dismissively, not looking up from where his bare feet are digging into the rug, because Derek still hasn’t put a shirt on, “I’ll just grab them later to bring home and wash.”

“Are you staying over?” Derek asks, returning the clothes to the floor, even though it looks like it kills him to have the mess anywhere on the floor.

“I can get a cab home…” Stiles says, suddenly wondering if he was being too presumptuous by borrowing what are obviously pajamas and sitting down on Derek’s bed. Of all the times he’s done a job like this, he’s never felt so unsure of where he stands.

“It wasn’t a trick question,” Derek is staring at him, small smile stuck in the corner of his mouth. He looks so good, skin flushed a bit from the combination of their earlier activities and the warm shower. His eyes are sparking in the yellow light, looking both fond and exasperated.

Stiles lets his teeth catch his bottom lip, biting down a bit in thought. He wants to stay, more than anything, really. That probably means that he shouldn’t, but Derek is looking at him like he _wants_ Stiles in his bed or something. Stiles smiles, huge and uncontrollably happy, before he tamps it down. Without saying a word, he pulls the covers back and climbs farther into Derek’s bed, holding eye contact the entire time.

Derek must understand the unspoken answer, because he nods approvingly and leaves the room to lock up, by the sound of it. When he comes back, he hovers over Stiles a bit unnecessarily as he shuts off the bedside lamp.

“That’s my side,” he says, breath hot and minty, “Scootch over.”

“Make me,” Stiles smirks, watching Derek’s face even as the room suddenly goes dark. Stiles’ eyes take a while to adjust, but he can see the hulking shadow that is Derek, can feel the chilly air as the covers are lifted. Derek manhandles him a little, slotting his own body in tight so he has the leverage to push Stiles over. The part of the mattress that Stiles is moved to is cold, but Derek is a searing line against his back.

Stiles rolls over, still unable to make out any details on Derek’s face, but his hands find shoulders easily. He shoves, very gently, “I challenge you to a battle for that side of the bed.”

Derek makes a disagreeing noise, already sounding sleepy, “My bed, my side,” he wraps his arms around Stiles, wherever they can reach, and hugs him tight to his bare chest. Like he’s got smothering on his mind. Stiles puts up a fight, just to be disagreeable, but he’s already losing the energy. He lets Derek grab his hands to stop his flailing and likes the feeling of their fingers intertwining under the covers. Derek flips him over, seemingly effortlessly, and spoons up against Stiles’ back, arms snaking around him while their knees slot together.

The mouth pressed to the base of Stiles’ neck breathes hot against his skin, and he finds himself falling asleep before he can even think to stop himself.

-

There’s a horrible ringing sound, endless and loud and grating. Stiles’ groans pitifully, as if that’ll get the noise to stop. He buries in closer to the warm thing by his face, smashing an ear against it, which actually does end up muffling the sound a bit.

The warm thing moves, which makes Stiles whine in an effort the get it to stop. The ringing halts suddenly and there are two sighs of relief heard in the ensuing silence. Then it starts up again, even worse this time again, now that Stiles knows how nice the silence really is. He cracks an eye open, but it’s still dark everywhere, so he tells himself that it’s not his job to be conscious right now. The warm thing—which is actually Derek’s chest, Stiles realizes—shifts as if making a move towards the ringing noise. Stiles protests, but his body isn’t even trying to cooperate, so it’s mostly just a grumpy whine. Derek rolls up and stands, stumbling to the dresser or wherever he left his phone before falling asleep.

Stiles grumbles about the brief shock of cold when Derek leaves his side but turns himself into his own brand of burrito very soon after.

“Yeah?” Derek says, voice groggy and loud in the room, but at least the ringing has stopped. There’s a faint buzz of another voice speaking on the other end of the line. Stiles tries to go back to sleep.

“Wh—what? Really?”

Okay, so Stiles can’t really sleep. He keeps his eyes closed anyways.

“Where?”

A pause.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Does she need anything?”

Stiles squints his eyes open but can only see the shadow of Derek—the dark mass of him. It looks like he has a hand pressed to his forehead.

He laughs, sounding almost choked up, “Shut up,” somehow his voice is smiling, “See you.”

Derek hangs up, just looking down at his phone for a moment. His face is bathed in blue from the light of it, and when he locks it and slides it into the pocket of his sweats, Stiles feels strangely lost. Derek is rummaging through some drawers, and Stiles can vaguely see him slip a shirt on— _finally_ —and some socks. He grabs some other things and then hovers by the side of the bed, as if thinking. Stiles guesses that Derek can’t see that he’s awake.

“What’s going on?” Stiles says, voice rough with sleep.

“That was Boyd. Erica went into labor. They’re at the hospital now.”

He sounds almost shocked as he explains it. Shocked and _excited_ , Stiles realizes. A week ago Derek barely recognized that these people were his _friends_ , the idiot.

“Do you need me there too?” Stiles asks, before his half-asleep brain can filter it. He’s not asking on behalf of Erica or Boyd—just _Derek_. The shadow in front of him shakes its head.

“Go back to sleep, hopefully I’ll be back soon after you wake up,” Derek runs a quick hand over Stile’s hair, fingers carding through the short strands. He makes to pull away, freezing when Stiles grabs his hand.

“Hey,” Stiles takes a deep breath, still too tired to really think straight, but feeling brave, “Come—C’mere.”

He pulls Derek’s hand until his body moves with it, first kneeling on the bed and then sinking down to bend right over Stiles’ face, blocking out everything else. Stiles flails his hands until they find neck, pulls Derek closer in a blind search for lips. When their mouths connect, it’s completely off center, but Derek adjusts, and they kiss—close-mouthed, long and tender. They separate with a pop, and then Derek leaves. Stiles listens to the front door close and lock behind him.

He tries his best to sleep but can’t seem to manage it.

They sky outside the window is still dark, just barely lightening into something a little more purple. Stiles struggles with the covers until he can roll over and check the time on the alarm clock on the night stand. It’s about half past four in the morning.

Stiles moans, insulted that a baby would ever choose to make an appearance at such a dreadful time of the day. He stares at the square of sky that he can see through the window, eyes feeling dry and fatigued. When he physically cannot stand just laying around anymore, Stiles gets up in search of the coffee machine.

It’s a chilly morning, and he ends up digging a thick pair of socks out of Derek’s dresser before he makes the journey to the kitchen. For the sake of his eyes, he leaves all the lights off. He could brew coffee in his sleep anyways. Once he somehow manages to locate everything and press all the right buttons, he stands over the machine, just breathing in pure caffeine fumes. He’s making a full fucking pot, because he deserves it.

Derek doesn’t seem to have any cream in his fridge—just a shit-ton of vegetables, what the fuck—but he does have sugar, so Stiles loads up and wanders over to the window seat in the living room, gripping the coffee mug he found like it’s a literal lifeline.

He sits, watching the sky get lighter and ambitious joggers run by on their route through Central Park. He’s kinda a sucker for people-watching. And if he goes back for two more cups of coffee, that’s between him and the coffee pot.

By seven in the morning, the sun is mostly completely risen. Stiles washes the mug he used and sets it out to dry, wondering if he should save the left-over coffee to drink over ice during his inevitable afternoon slump. Not that he’s planning on camping out here all day. It’s just, Stiles likes it here. It smells like Derek. And it’s cozy. And roomier than his miniscule apartment.

Stiles ponders his existence, looking around at how the rising sun streaks over the hardwood floors, the hundreds of books, the television mounted on the wall. It’s a quiet little moment, in a world that Stiles really doesn’t belong in. He’s scammed his way here, into this beautiful home, into bed with a beautiful man. Stile’s eyes fall to the small table, just outside the kitchen. They land on the silver of Derek’s laptop, and they stay there.

The sun is making the computer sparkle a bit, just a little sliver of metal peeking out from under the pile of other files and paperwork. It feels like the most dangerous thing in the room, and Stiles hates that computer for a moment.

He walks to the opposite side of the room, trying to get as much distance from the thing as possible. He turns on the TV just for some background noise, flipping through channels aimlessly until he lands on Cartoon Network. They’re playing back-to-back Powerpuff Girls for the next few hours.

Stiles hunkers down on the couch and manages to sit still and watch a few episodes until he gets antsy. He goes to the bathroom and uses ice cold water to wash his face, eyes still feeling gritty. He decides against searching Derek’s bathroom for a spare toothbrush and settles on his finger, some borrowed toothpaste and a swig of mouthwash.

He paces for a bit, then finds his dirty clothes in Derek’s room and shoves the gross bundle right into his bag that he left by the door. After contemplating, he goes and makes Derek’s bed. It ends up pretty crooked the first time, but he manages to do an alright job when he tries again.

Stiles wonders if he should leave. But then he thinks about sitting in his own sad apartment alone, waiting until Monday to see Derek again, and he becomes a little more at peace with the fact that he’s not really planning on going anywhere. In fact, Stiles grabs a book at random off a shelf and makes himself comfy on the window seat so he can try out this reading thing.

It doesn’t work out very well. At first, he keeps getting distracted by the TV, so he gets up to shut it off. The silence is actually kind of nice. He settles back down, but then his eyes keep wandering to the people and cars outside. The city is waking up—or more accurately, never slept in the first place. Once Stiles finally manages to force himself to read the words in front of him, he falls asleep, face smashed against the warming glass of the window.

He wakes up well past an appropriate time for lunch, and stupidly hopes that no one outside saw him drooling and snoring all open-mouthed. It would be just Stiles’ luck if a video of his disturbing sleep habits went viral.

He stumbles to the kitchen in search of food, craving a sandwich for some reason. Stiles goes a little crazy searching through the fridge and cabinets, unwilling to believe that Derek has _no_ bread in his house. What kind of mutant doesn’t have bread?

He finds an open box of Frosted Flakes, which lifts his spirits only until he realizes that Derek doesn’t even have any milk. Stiles screams internally, fishing an apple out of the fridge and deciding that fruit and dry cereal is probably enough to curb him over for the time being. He eats the Frosted Flakes straight out of the box, because if Derek doesn’t even have milk then there’s no way Stiles is unnecessarily dirtying a bowl. The cereal is a little stale, but Stiles isn’t really expecting any better at this point.

He eats on the couch, deciding that an iced coffee actually does sound good right now. He has a crazy thought to eat the Frosted Flakes with cold coffee instead of milk, but thinks it might just be the post-nap haze talking. Or he’s just a genius.

As far as lazy days go, he’s actually not having a bad time.

As temping as the television is, Stiles ends up browsing the bookshelf again. He returns the other (unbearable boring) book that he had been reading and spends a little more time finding one that actually sounds interesting to him. Once again claiming the window seat as his own, he settles in and starts reading. Time apparently flies when you aren’t torturing yourself with horrible literature.

Stiles only pulls away when his stomach growls, realizing that he’s three quarters of the way through the book and the sky is going a little dark, the trees of Central Park lit up orange from where the sun must be setting on the other side of the house.

Using an old takeout menu and the landline (seriously, what century was Derek born in?), he orders a pizza, then decides on two pizzas actually, just in case Derek doesn’t like pepperoni. Stiles has seen the contents of this guy’s kitchen; he would not put it past him. He throws in some garlic knots, on a whim. He actually has to peek his head out the front door so he can give them the address to the house, but nobody outside gives him any weird looks. New Yorkers, man.

He goes back to his book, actually jumping in shock a little when the front door opens. His heart beats a frantic dance in his chest, and he feels strangely guilty, like maybe he should’ve gone home right when he woke up or something.

But then Derek looks up from where he’s slipping some sneakers off, spotting Stiles and smiling faintly, looking pleasantly surprised.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” Derek says, observant eyes flitting around the room. He must be seeing how Stiles has been making himself comfortable—TV remote replaced crookedly, washed dishes drying near the kitchen sink, books pulled out and replaced, probably in the wrong places. And then Stiles, still in Derek’s clothes, curled up in the window seat like he’s trying to leave behind his own personalized butt imprint in the cushion.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, feeling horribly exposed, “Sorry, I—I’m actually not sure why I…”

He stares hard at the floor, wondering if he’d be able to slip past Derek and out the door. Maybe if he sprinted. He could grab his bag and shoes on the way, and then return Derek’s clothes at work on Monday. It wouldn’t be too awkward, probably. And maybe the people on the subway would just think that the boxers he’s wearing are some really fun shorts. Derek’s feet enter his line of sight, slowly.

“I’m _glad_ ,” Derek says, emphasizing the words like he thinks Stiles is being an idiot. Stiles looks up, and Derek looks exhausted but still beautiful, and _happy_. Oh. Stiles exhales so hard that the sound is audible.

“How’s Erica?” Stiles asks, deciding not to embarrass himself trying to find an appropriate response to Derek. For some reason, that only makes Derek raise his eyebrows, like Stiles is actually an even bigger idiot that he previously thought.

“I texted you,” he says pointedly. _Ohhh_ , Stiles is stupid. He hadn’t even thought to check his phone. Like, he had almost forgotten he even had a phone that Derek was able to text. Stiles drops his head back, banging it once against the window.

“I’m so dumb,” Stiles says, thinking about how he could’ve just _asked_ Derek if he wanted Stiles to be there when he got back, and then Stiles wouldn’t have shaved a good five years off his life from stress.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, moving to join Stiles on the window seat. Stiles spins, planting his feet on the ground so they have room to sit side-by-side. Derek is a comforting warmth, their shoulders brushing as he unlocks his phone and turns the screen so Stiles can see. They flip through photos together.

Erica, looking worn and tired, but _glowing_. Boyd, a rare smile on his lips while he looks at something off-camera. A pink little face, swaddled up tight in a blanket. Erica kissing the pink head, hugging the baby against her chest. There’s a few more of Erica, Boyd and the baby together, lost in their own little world. There’s one of Isaac, holding the baby like he isn’t quite sure what to do with his arms, a goofy grin covering his face.

The doorbell interrupts them.

“Shit, I ordered pizza,” Stiles says, grabbing his wallet from his bag on the way to the door. He pays and tips the delivery guy, balancing the precarious stack of pizza boxes. Derek is suddenly there, taking the food before he drops it, and spreading everything out on the kitchen counter.

“Thank you,” Derek says, taking a big whiff of the garlic knots, “I haven’t eaten much all day, just bad hospital coffee.”

Stiles squeezes in by his side, drawn in by the smell of food and the sight of Derek still in his sweatpants from last night. He presses his face to the outside of Derek’s bicep, turning his head until his nose kinda nudges against Derek’s armpit. It makes Derek flinch, like he’s trying to act like it doesn’t tickle.

Derek wraps his arms around Stiles, pulling him in so his face ends up buried in Derek’s neck instead. He spins a little, throwing Stiles off balance enough that he has to cling to Derek so he doesn’t stumble. Derek pauses then, just hugging Stiles close to his chest. They breathe together.

When Stiles peeks up, Derek is staring at the small kitchen table, face almost blank. He looks deep in thought. Stiles wonders if he’s thinking about the work he brought home to do this weekend—the stack of paperwork sitting on top of his laptop. Stiles kisses his chin, just a short peck over the rough, overgrown stubble.

It works on getting Derek’s attention, and he studies Stiles closely, eyes on every inch of his face. He looks like he’s trying to read Stiles’ mind. He leans in slow, kisses right between Stiles’ brows. He keeps his eyes lidded, but open, like he wants to watch while he does it.

If Stiles stretches an arm out behind Derek, he can just reach the food. He fumbles, trying to move silently and without alerting Derek. He feels for the garlic knots, grabbing one and pulling his face back as if he’s about to say something. Instead, he shoves the garlic knot in Derek’s mouth, smashing it so the grease gets smeared all over his lips.

Derek looks affronted, mouth stretched obscenely around the bread, and Stiles can’t hold back a cackle. He ducks out of Derek’s arms and tries to put distance between them before Derek retaliates. Derek is quick though, hooking him around the waist and pulling him back against his body—back to chest. He must’ve bit the garlic knot in half, because whatever hadn’t been shoved in his mouth is shoved into Stiles’. It makes him laugh harder, but muffles the sound. Derek is breathing against his ear, quiet amusement coming out in little pants.

“I surrender, I surrender,” Stiles says, his words slurred from where he’s trying to chew the bread. Derek releases him and grabs a slice of pizza—pepperoni, which makes Stiles smile.

They eat standing up in the kitchen, talking about whatever dumb thing comes to mind. Derek asks about the book he was reading, and says there’s another by that same author that he thinks Stiles would like.

After the leftovers are put away, they sit across from each other on the couch, feet tangled together in the middle. Derek has retrieved the book from his nightstand and they both read in comfortable silence. When Derek’s head starts drooping against the back of the couch, eyes fluttering in an attempt to stay open, Stiles drags him into the bathroom and forces him to brush his teeth. Derek magically procures a spare toothbrush he had hidden somewhere, so they end up standing next to each other at the sink, eyes meeting occasionally in the mirror. Whenever they do meet, Stiles makes a funny face at Derek, foam leaking from his mouth.

Stiles pushes Derek towards his bed, locking the front door and turning all the lights off. When he returns to the room, Derek is once again shirtless, curled on his side in bed. The one eye that isn’t pressed against his pillow is open, trained on Stiles steadily. Stiles switches the bedside lamp off, still standing a bit unsurely.

“It’s okay that I stay over again, right?” he asks, simultaneously glad that Derek can’t see his face in the dark and disappointed that he can’t see Derek’s face. There’s a fumbling sound, then Derek’s hand finds Stiles’ wrist. He grunts and pulls until Stiles is forced to tip forward into bed. As far as answers go, it’s not the most obscure that Stiles has ever gotten.

They kiss sloppily, mostly going by touch because it’s too hard to see each other. Derek tastes minty, but with a little undercurrent of stubborn garlic. Stiles lets himself be rolled over until he’s the little spoon, lets Derek wrap him up in his arms in the way that seems instinctual to him—a part of his very personality.

They sleep, with no interruptions this time, and Stiles feels his heart, somewhere deep in his chest, give one painful throb before settling into a pattern of relieved little beats—like a dislocated shoulder being jerked right back into its socket.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my classes are finishing up in these next couple weeks so i'm sorry if i don't update as frequently! hope you enjoy this chapter, let me know what you think!

Work on Monday is mostly normal.

Derek decided that Kira knows more about the company and would be better use to him as Erica’s replacement for the next few months than anyone else. Derek’s little sister—Cora, Stiles has learned—offered to take Kira’s place while she’s home from college for the summer. It seems like a mindless job, just signing for packages or giving directions to visitors or taking and forwarding on phone calls. Stiles is half-tempted to ask if he can have the job instead.

Derek is busy training both Kira and Cora, so Stiles doesn’t get much of a chance to talk to him at all. There’s a bit of intense eye contact at one point, but that’s about it.

Stiles had left in the early afternoon on Sunday, insisting on walking to the subway despite the fuss Derek put up about it. They hadn’t had any more sex, but they _had_ made out against the front door for a solid twenty minutes. And Derek had made Stiles borrow some pants—too big, grey sweats—to wear on his trip back home. Stiles still has all the clothes, shoved under his pillow in his apartment. He kept the fucking socks too.

Derek had also made him text when he arrived home, which led to a vaguely sarcastic volley of text messages sent between them for the remainder of the weekend. Stiles gets a text from Erica too, it’s a photo of Derek, big arms curved to gently support a flushed little baby, his eyelashes fanning over his cheeks, mouth curved up softly in the corners in an amazed smile. Under the photo, Erica has sent _ur welcome_. Stiles saves the photo and sends back an ambiguous _omg_.

When Stiles goes to water the plant, Derek’s office is empty. He was expecting it to be, considering Derek has been holed up in the conference room with Kira for the last hour. It gives Stiles the time to snag a piece of paper from a notebook on Derek’s desk, scribbling out _your ass looks good in those pants_ in his flirtiest handwriting. He folds the paper in half and leaves it on Derek’s desk chair for him to find later.

Lydia keeps sending him weird looks, so he tries his best to act busy for the rest of the day. He only slips up once, when Derek is leaning out of his office to remind Kira of something and he glances at Stiles quick, his ears going pink. Which means he saw Stiles’ note. Stiles lets himself grin and admire said ass, blatantly checking Derek out.

Derek must know it, because the pink spreads to his cheeks a little and he has this stupidly cute smile on his face that he’s struggling to tamp down, a smile that probably has nothing to do with whatever he’s saying to Kira about a monthly revenue report.

He retreats back to his office, swaying his literally flawless ass like he wants to make sure Stiles is paying attention. And oh boy, Stiles has never paid so much attention to anything in his _life_. The exchange doesn’t go unnoticed by Lydia, though, which is just terrific. He keeps his head down for the rest of the day.

Cora somehow manages to drag Derek out of the office at a reasonable time, insisting that he take his little sister out for dinner after her first day. Derek follows her with minimal reluctance, but he does look back at Stiles before turning the corner towards the elevator. His eyes are a little wistful, almost apologetic. Stiles feels very much the same, but he folds his pointer finger and thumb into an L shape and holds it to his forehead, amazingly not really worried about any of his coworkers seeing him call their boss a loser. It succeeds in making Derek rolls his eyes so hard it must hurt. He’s smiling, though, when he steps out of sight.

A few moments later, Stiles gets a text from him: _You’re a loser_.

-

Later in the week, Stiles and Derek both stay late at the office and leave together. They take a taxi to some greasy burger place a few blocks from Derek’s house and bump knees under the booth. Stiles insists on ordering one milkshake with two straws, which Derek doesn’t even drink much of, but he doesn’t seem to mind watching Stiles try to inhale it through the tiny plastic tube.

They laugh a lot, or at least frown aggressively to hide giant smiles—in Derek’s case. It’s cute, and it’s a fun date. Stiles hasn’t been on a date like this in a very long time, maybe even ever. He tries not to think about that around Derek, tries to just focus on how his eyes glint before he says something snarky or how his voice goes soft sometimes, like he’s telling a secret.

Derek insists on paying, reminding Stiles that he got the pizza last time, and they start walking towards Derek’s place. They bump shoulders quite a few times, the sidewalk too narrow and crowded to avoid it. When Stiles sees the entrance to Central Park, just across the street from Derek’s house, he tilts his head to give Derek a hopeful little smile.

“Wanna walk through the park a bit?”

The sun is just starting to go down, and it’s a warm evening. Now that they’ve stepped out from the cover of the tall buildings around them, there’s a slight breeze in the air. It ruffles Derek’s hair, makes him look all soft and disheveled.

Derek’s eyes crinkle slightly, and he grabs Stiles’ hand to pull him across the street before the streetlight changes. The park is crowded today, full of people lounging in the grass and walking their dogs. Derek hasn’t released his hand, so Stiles swings their arms playfully. They don’t talk much, just watch all the people and trees as they walk further, skirting the edge of a big pond. Stiles steps off the path to get a better look at some ducks crowded just at the edge of the water. It looks like they’re picking at the abandoned remains of a hotdog bun.

One of the ducks turns towards Stiles and honks threateningly. He stumbles backwards, arms wind milling until Derek steadies him with an arm around his shoulder. Chuckling, he steers Stiles back onto the path and away from the demon ducks. He glares back at them once, like he wants to make sure they’re not following Stiles and planning some sort of second attack. It’s kind of ridiculous, and Stiles grins so big it hurts.

“My hero,” he fake swoons, throwing his weight into Derek’s side. He was expecting Derek to stagger at least a little bit, but Derek is surprisingly sturdy, and Stiles only ends up smashing himself harder up against Derek. It brings his face really close to a stubbly jaw, so Stiles pecks it once, just so he can feel the now-familiar scrape against his lips.

Derek inhales, arm tightening around Stiles, “We should head back.”

“If this is about the demon ducks, I think you already did a great job of scaring them away with your evil glare. I’m very impressed with you, they were sufficiently intimidated,” Stiles pecks his jaw again, liking how Derek’s throat bobs right after. Stiles isn’t even looking where he’s walking at this point, so it’s a good thing Derek is still dragging him towards the park exit.

“It’s not about the demon ducks,” Derek grumbles, baring his neck in a way that makes it impossible for Stiles not to give him a third kiss there. Derek walks a little faster.

“You’d think they’d be used to humans by now, with all the people that go to Central Park. Maybe they thought I was gonna steal their hotdog bun or something. But, seriously dude, I have no interest in a soggy, muddy piece of bread. Like, maybe I should go back and tell them that, because they’re never gonna make any friends in this city if they keep getting territorial over a piece of food. Granted, I get the same way around curly fries, but curly fries are infinitely better than whatever sad remains they were guarding with their lives.”

Stiles babbles all the way back to Derek’s house, all the way up his front steps and past the door. He’s still babbling when Derek pushes him against that door, but more passively, like his brain has been disconnected from his mouth. Derek has this look on his face like he wants to bang his head against the wall and laugh at the same time, so Stiles drops to his knees and finds something better to do with his mouth.

-

Derek drives to work on Friday, so once everyone else leaves for the weekend, Stiles pulls him out of his office and towards the parking garage. There’s awful rush-hour traffic, but Stiles flips through the radio until he finds something he can obnoxiously sing along to.

Derek doesn’t complain, just smacks at Stiles’ legs when he tries to put his feet up on the dashboard and otherwise looks reluctantly amused. It takes three times as long as it should to get to Derek’s house, but neither of them seems to mind.

When they finally do arrive, Derek parks in his spot at the long-term garage near his place and they walk the half block to his front door. They take their shoes off and Derek starts rummaging through the fridge, pulling out things and piling them on the counter.

“Whatcha doing?” Stiles finds himself a clear part of the counter to hoist himself up on, heels banging against the cabinets below.

“Making dinner,” Derek says, raising his eyebrows judgmentally like the asshole that he is.

“ _Aww_ , you’re gonna cook for me?” Stiles opens his eyes wide and presses a hand against his chest. Derek shoves a head of broccoli at him.

“Chop.”

“Damn, you’re like an American Gordon Ramsay,” Stiles says, but slides off his seat on the counter and finds a cutting board anyways. It’s like a dance, the way they squeeze past each other as they move through the kitchen. Every time Derek puts a hand on the small of Stiles’ back, he feels it all the way in his fingertips.

“This is… a lot of vegetables,” Stiles says, looking over the piles of veggies they’ve just cut. He’s literally never seen food so colorful. Derek is doing something with some chicken breasts that Stiles can’t see. He has a dish towel draped over his shoulder, which is making Stiles’ stomach feel twisty.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but not everyone survives off of pizza and fried potato,” Derek flashes a smirk at Stiles before checking on a pot of rice. Stiles moves closer to him, almost unconsciously, until his face is pressed right in between Derek’s shoulder blades.

“That can’t be,” Stiles says, getting a mouthful of Derek’s shirt in the process. He wraps his arms around Derek’s waist and moves with him around the kitchen while he prepares dinner. Stiles lets his eyes close, lets his brain shut off like he’s trying to attempt a nap while standing up. It’s comfortable, and it makes Stiles smile when he feels the vibrations of Derek humming something under his breath. It sounds suspiciously like one of the songs Stiles was singing earlier.

Stiles inhales greedily at the smell and peeks his head over Derek’s shoulder to see what looks like stir-fry. Stiles’ stomach may or may not grumble in response.

“Mmm,” Stiles hums, probably too close to Derek’s ear.

Derek leans back into him, one hand trailing across the arms wrapped around his torso, “Almost ready,” he says, softly.

They eat on the couch, sitting sideways with their legs folded up so they can face each other. It actually tastes so amazing that Stiles makes a few sounds he’d probably be embarrassed about in any other situation.

“This is, like, healthy, but still amazing?” Stiles says, trying to properly convey his shock with his mouth full.

Derek drops open his jaw in faux-surprise, rubbing his chin, “Who knew?”

Stiles flicks at his knee, “Shut up. I’m seriously gonna need this recipe for my dad. I’m always trying to get him to eat better.”

It takes him a second to realize what he’s just said. For some reason, he isn’t freaking out the way he was the last few times he almost messed up. He feels fine, actually. Like he wants to tell Derek more about himself. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to speak honestly about his personal life, about where he came from.

Derek is watching him thoughtfully, silent until, “Your mom?”

Stiles clears his throat, suddenly very interested in the couch cushion, “She uh. She died when I was nine. Cancer.”

Derek’s hand finds his ankle, rubbing circles against the bone. He nods in understanding. After a moment he says, “My parents retired and moved upstate. I’m pretty sure they’re just hoping for grandchildren at this point.”

Stiles laughs, feeling lighter, “Oh man, I’m trying to imagine either of your sisters with children right now and my brain just like, can’t do it.”

“Cora’s too young,” Derek smiles, shaking his head, “And Laura already has too much going on with work.”

“Hmm,” Stiles purses his lips, setting his empty dish on the coffee table, “I guess you’re their last hope.”

His nose is twitching with the effort to hold back his snort, especially when Derek’s face flashes briefly with panic. He seems to recognize Stiles’ teasing, though, because he puts his dish down too, one eyebrow ticking up. He crawls forward, pushing Stiles back into the couch and prowling like a panther or something. His lips find Stiles’ earlobe and he nibbles, just enough to get Stiles to gasp, just before he purrs, “Oh, am I?”

-

Stiles stays the night and lets Derek make him breakfast in the morning.

He told Lydia he’d get lunch with her on Sunday, so he’s planning on spending as much time with Derek as he can before then. They shower together after they eat, taking an unnecessarily long time to rub soap all over each other. Stiles lets Derek wash his hair, knees going weak from the feeling of fingers scratching at his scalp. It turns into a headed make-out sesh where they both nearly drown under the shower spray.

They bump against the tiled wall of the shower, giggling into each other’s mouths. Derek’s hands never stop moving, running up Stiles’ sides to flick at his nipples, over his shoulders and down the line of his back to squeeze tight on his ass.

“I think I missed a spot earlier,” Derek rumbles, one soapy finger moving to run a firm line between Stiles’ cheeks. It makes Stiles choke, makes him lean forward into Derek and spread his legs as far as he can standing up.

“You should definitely fix that,” Stiles says, voice going reedy when Derek’s finger catches on his hole and presses down with a little more pressure. Stiles feels Derek’s dick twitch somewhere near his hip, which gives him a brilliant idea.

“I think I missed a spot too,” Stiles says, hand scooping some suds from Derek’s chest and dragging down past his cock. He cups Derek’s balls, rolling them in a soapy palm.

Derek moans, his hand spasming and returning to Stiles’ ass so he can so back to massaging the muscles there. He drops a head to Stiles’ shoulder, rubbing his stubble against collar bone, “Simon,” he groans, the name echoing around the bathroom.

Stiles feels himself freeze, his entire body going still in a way that is so completely unlike him. He pulls his hands off of Derek and leans back, just a bit. He’s trying really hard to move past it, to take deep breaths and not draw attention to the fact that his erection has suddenly flagged, drooping sadly. Derek notices, though, drawing back to examine Stiles’ face.

“Sorry,” Stiles whispers, feeling completely mortified, “God, I’m so sorry, I—”

He can’t look at Derek, can’t look away from a bottle of conditioner in the corner of the tub. Derek has pulled his hands away too, like he can see that Stiles doesn’t really want to be touched right now.

“Why are you apologizing? You didn’t do anything wrong, it’s _okay_ ,” Derek says, standing there looking all beautiful and kind and like everything Stiles has ever wanted. He hesitates, “Did I—”

Stiles shakes his head quickly, sending little water droplets everywhere with the motion. He can’t bring his voice to anything louder than a whisper, “No, no, it’s not you. I just.”

Stiles can’t really explain any of this without all the rest of his lies unraveling like a big ball of yarn. Derek must not need an answer, though. He just nods and steps under the water to rinse off the soap still left on his body, moving over to give Stiles plenty of room to do the same. He hands Stiles a towel and leaves him in the bathroom to dry off while he goes to get himself some clothes.

Stiles can’t even believe how sick it had made him feel, to hear Derek moaning a name that wasn’t his. He feels oddly bereft, like he’s lost something important to him, lost something that wasn’t even his to begin with. It’s stupid really, because he’s supposed to be Simon. And Simon is him in so many ways. Stiles wants to tell Derek everything more than he ever has before.

He goes to borrow some clothes instead, forcing himself to look Derek in the face and smile, no matter how phony it feels. Derek doesn’t say much, just stares at Stiles when he thinks he’s not paying attention and holds up a few DVD cases with raised eyebrows.

Derek owns a ridiculous amount of romcoms, so they watch dumb movies all day in their pajamas. Halfway through the first movie, Stiles lays down on the couch and drags Derek to spoon behind him. Derek’s arm hovers kind of awkwardly, so Stiles pulls it around himself, cuddling the hand a little aggressively to his chest.

It’s better, then, once they break through whatever weird wall Stiles had put up after his freak out. It’s comfortable too, just being close like this. And Derek doesn’t say the name Simon for the rest of the day, as if he can see right through Stiles and he just knows.

-

Lydia purposefully doesn’t mention Derek at all the entire time they have lunch at a small café halfway between their apartments. Stiles isn’t exactly trying to talk about what’s going on with Derek either, so it actually ends up being a nice time where they can just act like normal friends again. Stiles missed Lydia, strangely.

He’s used to her constant presence, either physically or through texts, so all the time he’s been spending with Derek has been making them grow more distant the past week or two. Lydia is a little tense around the lips throughout lunch, but she still snarks at him as much as she ever has. They linger a bit, drawing out the meal for probably longer than appropriate. Stiles leaves a big tip for their waitress to make up for it, and he waits until they step out onto the sidewalk before pulling Lydia into a hug.

She’s never been the most tactile, especially compared to how Stiles and Scott get sometimes, but she allows it, even tightening her arms.

“Don’t shut me out,” she whispers against the side of his neck, “I’m on your side, always.”

“I know, Lyds. You don’t have to worry about me.”

She pulls back so she can give him her trademark sardonic glare, eyebrows flicking up in a way that makes Stiles suddenly miss Derek so much his chest pangs with it. They literally just saw each other _yesterday_.

“I think you really underestimate how much people _care_ about you,” she cuffs him lightly on the ear, already taking a step away, “For someone so smart, you are a complete moron.”

She spins on her heel to head back to her place, barely acknowledging the “love you too!” that Stiles screams down the crowded sidewalk. Nobody even spares him a second glance; they just walk a little faster when they pass him as if they’re worried his tendency toward declarations of love is contagious or something.

Stiles sighs and starts walking back to his own apartment. He cuts through a few less crowded streets and thinks about whether or not Derek would let him come over again. He only notices the dark car following him after he trips over an uneven part of the sidewalk and looks around to make sure no one saw. The street is pretty quiet except for the black SUV that is moving at barely a crawl, just enough to keep up with Stiles but mostly stay out of his line of sight.

At the next intersection, Stiles makes a quick turn. He speeds up his steps, silently wishing he had just stayed on the busier streets with more traffic. When the car turns to follow, Stiles lets it catch up a little, then spins around as if he realized he’s going in the completely wrong direction. The car stops, but there’s no room to pull a speedy three-point-turn, so Stiles fast-walks away and tries his best to act casual. He turns another corner fast, headed for somewhere a bit more crowded. He’s probably just being paranoid, but—

Stiles flails, barely avoiding running into a big guy in a suit who seems to come out of nowhere. The guy has some scary muscles and mean eyes, so Stiles sidesteps as best he can in an attempt to not run into him and piss him off.

“Sorry, man—”

Stiles’ voice catches in his throat when the man grabs his bicep, stopping him in his tracks. The SUV comes down the street, pulling over right in front of them. Stiles’ heart is thumping insanely in his chest.

“Get in the car, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles watches another well-dressed man open the back door of the car before returning to the driver’s seat. Stiles vaguely recognizes him, and sighs hugely, abandoning his plan to knee the man holding his arm in the balls and make a break for it.

“You know, it’s polite to give me a little notice before you try to kidnap me.”

The guy doesn’t say anything, just shoves Stiles’ forward until he gets into the car. The door slams behind him, then locks with a click. Fantastic.

-

**Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania**

After driving for a little over an hour and a half, the car finally slows and pulls into a parking lot for a Starbucks. Stiles has been glaring out the window, alternating between shaking with fear and shaking with anger. He’s trying to act unaffected, though he’s not sure he’s able to fully hide the crazed look in his eyes.

They park a few spots down from another identical SUV. Honestly, these people couldn’t be any more obvious if they tried. Their whole presence just screams _sketchy_. The windows are fucking tinted, man.

The driver of the other car gets out and opens the door next to Stiles, “The Boss would like a word,” he says, gruff and unyielding.

“Would he now?” Stiles grumbles under his breath, sliding out of the car before anyone tries to drag him forcefully. He approaches the other car, realizing that he can’t see past the windows in the back, but assuming that’s where he’s supposed to go. He opens the door and climbs in, coming face-to-face with Gerard Argent. Who is slurping on a fucking Frappuccino.

They’re alone in the car, so for a moment all Stiles can hear is Argent’s labored breathing and gross straw-sucking sounds.

“Java chip?” Stiles asks, because as much as he was panicking earlier, he’s not even really surprised about any of this. It’s not the first time Argent has dragged him hours away just for a lecture or a check-up on how the mission is going.

“Chocolate Cookie Crumble,” Argent says, smiling blandly. Stiles hums, nodding and trying to channel every last drop of patience remaining in his body. It’s a struggle; Stiles has never had much patience to begin with.

“How is it going with Hale?” Argent finally asks, waxy face turning to examine Stiles. His eyes look almost black in this light.

“It’s going,” Stiles says evasively. He’s not dumb enough to think that Argent won’t demand a better answer, but if nothing else, Stiles is stubborn.

“So I’ve heard,” Argent says, popping the top of his cup off so he can lick some whipped cream off the straw. Um _ew_. He seems unapologetic about the fact that he’s been keeping tabs on Stiles, which isn’t actually shocking. Stiles assumed he was being watched. There’s a difference between assuming and knowing it for sure, though.

“It doesn’t usually take you this long,” Argent says, once he realizes that Stiles isn’t going to comment on how he’s been under surveillance.

“There hasn’t been a good chance to get to the computer,” Stiles sighs, lying right through his teeth, “I want to do this right.”

Argent smiles at that, a little (very) creepily. His eyebrows are weirdly spiky, like he’s a cartoon villain or something.

“Yes. As you should, Mr. Stilinski. This is the big finale.”

“Finale?” Stiles can’t help but ask. He wasn’t aware that this was the last job he’d be doing. For some reason he thought he’d never get out of this. Argent smirks mysteriously and doesn’t say a thing. Instead, he grabs a folder from somewhere near his feet, pulling out some large photographs. He hands them to Stiles without explanation.

Stiles flips through them, mouth open but throat closing up so tight he can barely get a breath in. There’s his dad at home, still in pajamas and getting the newspaper. His dad in uniform, getting into the patrol car to head to work. His dad arriving at the station. Through the window of his office, his dad sitting at his desk with his glasses perched low on his nose.

“What do you want?” Stiles chokes out, not pretending for a second that this is anything less than a threat.

“Do your job,” Argent says simply, “And you can walk away, debt fully repaid.”

Stiles snorts before he can stop himself. Argent places a clammy hand over the one Stiles is holding the photos with, stilling it. Stiles hadn’t even realized he was trembling.

“I mean it, Mr. Stilinski. I’d rather not have to intervene just because you can’t do a simple task. And I’d especially like to avoid getting my family involved,” Argent rips the photos from Stiles’ grasp, aggressive in a way that contradicts the steadiness of his voice. Stiles looks right in his eyes, looks at the way they flash dangerously.

“That won’t be necessary,” Stiles assures. He’s heard rumors. About Argent’s family—about his _daughter_. And Stiles knows for a fact that he doesn’t want her anywhere near this, anywhere near Derek.

“I assumed so,” Argent says, smiling again and draining the rest of his now-melted drink. It feels like a dismissal, so Stiles opens the door, stepping back out into the parking lot.

“Oh, Mr. Stilinski?” Argent calls, just before Stiles can shut the door. They lock eyes, and Stiles has never felt more like prey before. “Scott has missed his last two shifts at the coffee shop. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Stiles blinks, hoping with everything he has that Scott really is somewhere safe right now, “I don’t know where he is.”

Argent watches him, nodding like he expected just as much, “I thought so. That’s alright. I will find him eventually, and he will be appropriately dealt with.”

“Good,” Stiles says, hating himself for how it comes out sounding strangled. It makes Argent laugh—an old, hideous thing—and Stiles shuts the door quick.

He hears the laugh in his head for the entire drive home.

-

**New York, New York**

The car drops him off outside his apartment, so Stiles fumbles with his keys at the entrance, stalling for a bit. When the car finally drives off and turns out of view, Stiles sprints towards the nearest subway station.

He’s not thinking very clearly—mostly running on built up panic and an unbearable amount of anxiety. His brain is literally just a constant stream of _holy shit, what the fuck, holy shit_ , with a nice bit of Argent’s evil laughter thrown in there.

By the time he gets off the subway at the stop closest to Derek’s house, he’s actually surprised he’s managed to put one foot in front of the other to even get there. He has no clue what time it is, but at least the sky hasn’t gone dark yet. It’s a brisk day, but there are still tons of people milling around Central Park.

Only a few houses down from Derek’s, Stiles takes a huge breath in and tries to calm down. Nobody else is panicking, which is both embarrassing and motivation to stop acting fucking insane. From across the street, Stiles makes eye contact with a man who is standing there with his dog, staring. Stiles probably looks like he’s losing his mind, oh man. His eyes trail down the man’s arm, down the leash to the dog. A German Shepherd.

Stiles forces himself to look away and not run the rest of the way to Derek’s door. He can’t be sure, of course, but he _swears_ that’s the same dog from before. The same man, too. _What are the odds of that?_

He doesn’t look anything like one of Argent’s guys. But if he doesn’t work for Argent, then who the hell does he work for. And why is he following Stiles—still following him after _weeks_. It could totally be a wild coincidence, sure, but Stiles has never been that lucky. His life has been a shitstorm ever since he met Gerard Argent.

Stiles thinks that his knocking at Derek’s door comes out more like deranged pounding.

Derek yanks the door open hard, face going from agitated to pleased to concerned so fast it almost gives Stiles whiplash. He’s in sweats and a hoodie, clutching a mug of tea in one hand. Stiles thinks it’s chamomile.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks, watching Stiles glance behind him. The man is gone, but it doesn’t make Stiles feel any better. Derek pulls him inside with a hand on his shoulder, shutting the door and flicking closed three separate locks before Stiles can even blink.

“What—was someone—” Derek’s mouth flounders. _Following you_ , he looks like he’s going to say, eyes intense and so focused on Stiles that it’s almost disarming. Stiles can’t stop shaking. His eyes flit around the room nervously, suddenly so irrevocably nervous for Derek, scared for him in a way he’s never really felt for anybody before, barring maybe his dad.

“Sim—hey,” Derek trips over his words, setting down his tea somewhere behind him with a clink. His big hands find Stiles’ face, cupping his cheeks carefully. Stiles meets his eyes finally and feels himself go still. His heart is racing but he leans forward for a long kiss, tasting honey and warmth. He buries his face in Derek’s neck afterwards, not really sure what expression he’s even making right now. Derek runs a steady hand up the line of his spine, pausing to hold the back of his neck before moving back down again.

“Can we just, like, watch some dumb TV and eat cookies?” Stiles twists his hands up in the fabric of Derek’s hoodie. There’s a long pause, as if Derek is trying to decide whether or not to just drop it. Stiles holds his breath, feels the sigh that Derek lets out run through his whole body.

After what feels like an eternity, Derek grudgingly says, “There’s a new season of Queer Eye on Netflix.”

Stiles hugs him tighter. Says, “You’re the best.” Doesn’t say, _I kind of love you a little bit_. That’s a thought that Stiles carefully sets aside for later, because he really can’t handle that whole downward spiral quite yet.

Derek presses his lips to Stiles’ forehead. He murmurs, all hot breath, right against the skin, “I have Oreos in the pantry.”

Derek doesn’t even eat Oreos. Cookies just started appearing in his house after Stiles moaned about the lack of artificial sugar one night. It’s harder for Stiles then, to not say the love thing.

After about an hour of TV with Derek spooned tight against his back, Stiles has finished a whole sleeve of the cookies himself. The room is dark, except for the blue-tinged television light. Derek hasn’t moved much, just a casual arm slung over Stiles’ waist. Stiles suspected he fell asleep for a bit, but he didn’t want to spin around and check.

Derek’s hand trails up, moving from the soft swell of Stiles’ belly. He splays his fingers wide, right over Stiles’ heart.

“Are you ever going to tell me?” Derek asks, the first words they’ve spoken since they extracted themselves from their embrace by the front door. Stiles’ heart speeds up, and he knows that Derek can probably feel it—a frantic pulse against his palm.

Stiles doesn’t know if Derek is just referring to his weird behavior today. He doesn’t know what Derek even thinks is going on. He doesn’t know anything, except that he wants to tell Derek the truth. And that when he does, it’s gonna hurt like hell. But he’ll do it because it’s what Derek deserves, and Stiles cares about him way too much to lie to him now. He’ll lose this—this closeness—but it’s the right thing to do, and Stiles is damn tired of feeling like such a coward all the time.

“Yeah,” he responds, hating the way his voice shakes, “I will.” Stiles brings a hand up to his own chest and presses Derek’s hand harder against him, begging him to hear the promise in his words. _Soon_ , he thinks, _I’ll tell you everything_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally finally finally i got the chance to update! thank you all for being so patient with me, i've been writing hella essays for school and then turned into a netflix zombie for a good four days just so i didn't have to use my brain. i'm not a big fan of this chapter, but i'm excited for the next one so hopefully i can get it written relatively soon <3

Stiles is anxious all the time now. He’s developed such an intense habit of constantly glancing over his shoulder that even Isaac keeps giving him weird looks. He steps out for coffee on Tuesday, trying hard not to think about the lack of Scott behind the counter, and smacks right into the side of the elevator door on his way back. As if someone had magically appeared in the elevator with him on the ride up and was going to kidnap him all over again. To make matters worse, Cora just snorts at him—her feet resting on the desk in the lobby—and he spills half his latte down his shirt.

Lydia corners him in the men’s room while he’s dabbing at the brown stain uselessly. She snatches the crumped blob of wet paper towel from his hand and takes over trying to salvage the shirt, eyes down and face blank. She doesn’t say anything. Stiles sighs, lets himself lean back against the sink. Greenberg barges in at some point, whistling and headed for the urinals. He freezes when he sees them, and makes a hasty retreat when Lydia gives him her signature glare. Derek comes in not a minute later and Stiles suspects Greenberg might have tattled. 

“You know you can’t be in here,” he says, it’s directed at Lydia, but his eyes never leave Stiles. His eyes are muted in the fluorescent light, but he looks incredible as always. Derek takes up space like he’s doing the universe a favor.

Lydia sighs, dropping the paper towels in the trash with a plop. “Yes, sir. I trust you can do something about all— _this_ ,” her hand makes a gesturing motion that covers literally all of Stiles’ being. Has he really been looking that bad this week?

Lydia leaves and Derek just kind of watches him from his spot near the door for a moment. It’s quiet and strangely nice, despite the nearby row of toilet stalls. Derek approaches slowly, eying the coffee stain with consideration.

“Rough day?” he asks, voice low. He doesn’t try to get the stain out anymore, probably knowing it’s useless at this point.

“The roughest,” Stiles agrees, sounding more exhausted than he expected to. Derek’s eyes flit between his, standing so close that Stiles can feel the heat of him, but not touching.

“Want to take a half day with me?”

Stiles can’t stop his eyebrows from shooting up, never in his life thinking he’d hear Mr. Derek Workaholic Hale suggest they leave the office early.

“And do what?” Stiles asks, unintentionally sounding flirty. It makes Derek smile a little, one corner of his lips just barely pulling up. His nose twitches too, like it does when he’s trying not to laugh.

“We could go to the Met,” Derek offers, a teasing tone in his voice. He’s staring at Stiles like he’s serious, though.

“The Met?” Stiles thinks his face is making some incredulous expression, “The Met, like the Metropolitan Museum of Art? _That_ Met?”

Derek nods, gaze dropping occasionally to watch Stiles’ mouth move when he talks. Stiles thinks The Met is probably crowded and full of strange people and completely not a good place for him to be when his paranoia is at an all-time high. He wants to be there with Derek, though. He wants it so suddenly and viscerally that he finds himself unconsciously leaning in, Derek’s eyes crossing more and more the closer he gets. Stiles stops himself a hairsbreadth away, so far in Derek’s space that he can taste every exhale.

He thinks about asking why the hell Derek wants to go to The Met, but instead says, “People will talk if we leave together now.”

Derek smiles fully now, like Stiles just agreed to go somewhere in that sentence.

“I really can’t bring myself to care,” Derek closes the distance between them, softly kissing the corner of Stiles’ lips.

So they go to The Met.

Stiles actually calms down a bit, the heat of Derek’s palm on the small of his back keeping him grounded. It’s a lot of people, but it’s almost better for Stiles. To feel like he’s hidden, to feel like he has _witnesses_ just in case Argent does something. As they step around a sculpture of a naked man, Stiles grins and it feels more genuine than anything else he’s done today.

“So. A museum date,” Stiles hums, peering at Derek from the corner of his eye, “How cliché of you, Mr. Hale.”

Derek grumbles something, staring at the sculpture like it insulted his mother or something. The marble six pack actually kind of reminds Stiles of Derek, but he doesn’t mention that.

“Can’t believe you made me come here with a ginormous coffee stain on my shirt,” Stiles continues, “I am just destined to always look like a fool next to you. Like, if you were a flawless marble sculpture of a Greek god, I would be but a measly pebble in comparison.”

Derek’s face suddenly blocks where Stiles was trying to get a closer look at the sculpture’s little stone dick. He has a grumpy frown on his face. Stiles really thought they had completely moved out of the grumpy frown phase.

“You always look incredible, don’t say that,” Derek emphasizes his words with a tight squeeze on Stiles’ hip, “ _You_ could be a Greek god. Your _eyes_ —they, uh. Do you, um, do you want to trade shirts with me? I’ll wear the stained one.”

Stiles doesn’t give a damn about the shirt, he just wants to hear what Derek was gonna say about his eyes. He shakes his head with a small smile, pecks Derek’s cheek and lingers a bit.

“How are you even real?” Stiles asks in wonder. It’s mostly rhetorical, so he just takes Derek’s hand and drags him off to a different room before he gets that chance to bumble out a response.

They wander aimlessly, Derek listening with amusement as Stiles critiques the art. They spend a while by the Monet paintings, because Derek’s eyes tend to go a bit soft when he looks at them. Stiles likes staring at him while he stares at the art, their hands still clasped together tightly.

Derek pulls Stiles back when he leans a bit too close to a display case around a Van Gogh self-portrait, murmuring “Don’t touch the art.”

Stiles grins wide and pokes Derek in the forehead. Says a loud, “Too late!”

Derek’s ears go pink and his mouth wobbles with some kind of pleased embarrassment. He knocks a shoulder against Stiles and pretends to be annoyed. Stiles gasps when they pass a huge canvas, covered in splatters and drops of paint.

“Jackson Pollock is my fave,” he winds through the crowd, trying to get closer. Derek gets pulled along, refusing to untangle their fingers no matter how sweaty and gross their palms feel by now.

“That’s actually not surprising to me at all,” Derek says once Stiles has nabbed them a better spot to look at the painting. He waits patiently while Stiles takes what is probably an unnecessary amount of time studying the work. He doesn’t even complain when Stiles makes him move to see the farther end of the canvas better.

They’ve been at the museum for a few hours by the time Stiles finally worms in close, dropping his head against Derek’s neck with a tired sigh.

“Ready to go?” Derek asks. He releases Stiles’ hand, leaving it cold. He makes up for it, though, by wrapping Stiles up in his arms, hugging tight. Stiles nods and inhales deeply. He feels loads better than he had that morning. He lets himself ramble about the art, enjoying the way Derek always seems to listen to him even if he doesn’t respond verbally.

“I love how paintings always have titles that literally just say exactly what the painting shows,” Stiles says, twirling in a circle on the sidewalk to look up at the sky. Derek is hovering on the curb, attempting to get a taxi to stop for them. He chuckles and sends a cute smile over his shoulder.

Stiles purses his lips and holds his fingers out to make a square. He moves his hands farther from his face and squints an eye closed, letting his fingers frame Derek—the stretch of shoulder blades, the shock of dark hair, the knowing look in his eyes.

“Handsome man attempts to hail cab,” Stiles muses, taking a few more seconds to appreciate the view. Derek tips his head back in a laugh, neck going long and tempting. He mirrors Stiles’ hands with his own, making his own frame and narrowing his eyes.

“Ridiculous babbling on The Met steps,” he declares with a smirk that only grows stronger when Stiles lets out a squawk. Somehow, miraculously, despite Derek not even trying at that moment, a taxi pulls over to pick them up.

“God-like man successfully hails cab in a worthy display of his magical cab-hailing abilities,” Stiles corrects his past self, squeezing in the back next to Derek. They inch through traffic for a few blocks before Derek dips his head to whisper in Stiles’ ear.

“Coffee-stained man comes over for dinner and gives God-like man a foot massage.”

Chest shaking with silent laughter, Stiles leans over to kiss the ball of Derek’s shoulder, through his shirt. He feels wildly grateful and wholly undeserving of Derek, in that moment and all the moments before it. He’s been quiet for too long by the time he sighs a nearly inaudible, “Thank you.”

Stiles is glad that Derek doesn’t ask what he’s being thanked for.

-

“I’ve been thinking, you should consider getting another plant.”

It’s mid-morning on Thursday and Stiles is watching people walk by on the street from the window in Derek’s office. Unsurprisingly, Derek has his full attention on whatever email he’s trying to craft on his laptop.

“You just want an excuse to come in here more often,” he mumbles, keyboard clacking.

Stiles scoffs, “As if I need an excuse anymore.”

He abandons the window and instead collapses sideways in one of the chairs opposite Derek’s desk, setting his elbow on the arm rest so he can prop his chin in a hand and watch Derek work.

“Maybe a cactus. I feel like you’d resonate with something prickly. Or, oh my God! I was on Google and I saw this thing called a Swiss Cheese plant. That’s what you need.”

Derek stares hard at the screen of his computer and then clicks something a few times, shaking his head. “Who gave you access to Google? That’s just asking for trouble.”

“Um, excuse you, Derek Jesus. Google taught my fourteen-year-old self how to kiss and then later, how to do some of the more creative slash explicit things now in my repertoire. You know, like bumpin’ uglies, the no pants dance, forget just the bases—I’m playing a full-on game of baseball kinds of things. You, of all people, should be _very_ grateful—”

A knock at the door interrupts him. Kira pokes her head in, and Derek _finally_ looks up from his laptop.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir. Your sister Laura is on the phone. She said you haven’t been answering her calls?”

Derek winces a little, nodding his thanks. Stiles stands and makes to leave to give him some privacy, calling out a theatrical “Well thank you, _sir_. That’s all I needed to discuss with you, I think.”

Derek rolls his eyes, lips twitching, “Of course. Later you can show me those things you were talking about earlier. I’m not the best at navigating Google.”

Stiles salutes and hightails back to his desk before anyone can see his blushing cheeks.

-

He gets a text as he’s typing up a boring report later. It’s from Derek.

_Come to Laura’s with me for dinner tomorrow? She invited you_.

Stiles’ heart speeds up. Another text comes in.

_AKA she insisted you come_

Fumbling for a second with his phone, he sends back _She’s a registered gun owner, should I be worried?_

It takes five minutes for Derek to respond: _Just be yourself._

Stiles tries his best not to drop his head onto his desk and scream.

-

After work, he calls Lydia.

It’s one of those rare days when Stiles doesn’t come back to Derek’s place with him after everyone else leaves. Cora had been hanging around chatting with Derek about some family drama, so Stiles had just waved goodbye with a little wink and went home.

It rings for a long time before she finally answers. He’s using the burner phone, so he’s not too surprised; Lydia probably had it hidden away somewhere.

“Stiles?” she sounds a little worried, as much as Lydia is capable of emoting anything that isn’t perfect control. It feels like forever since Stiles has heard his own name. He’s a little breathless when he answers.

“Yeah.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, sorry. It probably freaked you out that I called on this phone. I wasn’t think—”

“Just. It’s fine. Tell me what’s going on,” Lydia sounds a little more like herself now. It’s calming.

“Derek invited me to have dinner at his sister’s house tomorrow,” it still sounds kind of crazy. They’ve never talked about what they’re doing with each other, but dinner with family seems a little extreme.

“Huh,” Lydia says, thoughtful and not as shocked as Stiles was thinking she’d be.

“That’s it? Just ‘ _huh’_?” Stiles was hoping for some more advice, maybe a valid excuse she could give him to get out of it.

“Are you nervous or something?”

“It just seems soon,” Stiles dismisses, “And Argent kinda kidnapped me the other day for a nice threat-filled coffee meetup, so I’m just worried about putting anyone else in danger.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” there’s the shock and chastising that Stiles was expecting, “Why didn’t you tell me Gerard talked to you?”

Stiles shrugs and tips his head back to stare dramatically at the ceiling, “I don’t know, Lyds. I was scared.”

There’s a silence, both of them just listening to the other breathe.

Finally, Lydia says, “I can guarantee that Gerard already knows about everyone in the Hale family. You’re putting yourself in danger more than anything, Stiles. You need to be careful about—about _flaunting_ how close you’re getting to them.”

“If he knows everything then why wasn’t it in my file that Derek’s sister is a fucking cop?” Stiles thinks for a moment about the photographs of his dad, “And I’m just trying to get this over with, Lydia. I just want to get to the laptop so all of this can end.”

It sounds like a lie even to Stiles, but Lydia doesn’t call him on it.

“Maybe you can talk to them during the dinner,” Lydia says hesitantly, “You can be honest and tell them everything. I’m sure—”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles interrupts, voice sharp and too loud. He tries his best to relax, to calm down, “I just can’t, okay. I can’t.”

“Okay,” she eventually responds. “I might have an idea. To end this.”

Stiles is too exhausted to have this conversation, both now and ever.

“Lydia,” he sighs, “I have to go. I can’t talk about this.”

“Okay,” she allows, and Stiles hangs up before she can say anything else.

-

**Bloomfield, New Jersey**

The drive from the office to Laura’s small two-story home takes a little over half an hour, most of the time spent attempting to escape the rush hour city traffic. Derek gives Stiles the AUX cord in his Camaro, though, which leads to a long discussion about music and distracts them for long enough to get through it.

Stiles is nervous.

He’s trying to mimic Derek, who seems inhumanely calm about all this. Stiles just—he doesn’t usually meet the family members of his marks, is the thing. He doesn’t usually take this long to finish a job either, but he’s not super excited about ruining Derek’s life. He’s almost tempted to find a way out, like Scott did, but he’s constantly reminded of the danger that would put his dad in. He already has an abnormally small list of people in his life that matter to him, he can’t let anything happen to his dad.

He has to finish this job, is what he’s decided. He can finish it and be done with it all. Finally free to do whatever he wants with his life.

So obviously he’s a little uncomfortable with the whole meeting the family thing. He feels near-panic attack just sitting in the driveway staring at the house, car long gone silent after Derek shut it off. Derek hasn’t spoken. Stiles thinks he’s waiting for Stiles to act first.

“Okay,” Stiles says finally, a lame attempt at hyping himself up. He doesn’t move, just keeps looking at the white siding and brick steps that lead up to the door. The sun is sinking into the horizon, which bathes the house in a gold halo. Derek hasn’t even said anything.

“I can totally do this,” Stiles speaks again, hand hesitating as he reaches for the car door handle.

“Hey,” Derek says at last, “It’s going to be fine.”

Stiles doesn’t try to see his expression, but his voice warbles like he thinks Stiles is being 100% ridiculous. How long have they even been sitting here? Stiles wonders if Laura has been watching them out the window or something.

Derek finds his hand, intertwining their fingers and squeezing briefly. It’s nice. Stiles can feel his presence all along his side, a hot, steady weight leaning against the outside of his arm. Stiles closes his eyes, basking in it.

“What are you so afraid of?” Derek asks, and it sounds like he actually wants an answer. Stiles turns to look at his beautiful face and sees genuine curiosity. He opens his mouth to respond, but he can’t make himself say anything that isn’t the truth. And the truth is that he’s scared Laura will see right through him, will figure him out and never give him a chance to explain and he’ll lose Derek forever. It’s a dumb fear, considering he’ll lose Derek forever regardless.

Stiles realizes he’s been sitting with his mouth hanging open in anticipation of a response and decides to just rip the band aid off. He opens the door and steps out of the car, hand slipping from Derek’s as he heaves himself out. Derek follows suit and leads him to the front door, opening it up himself with a key.

It’s a cozy house, Stiles thinks. It reminds him painfully of his dad’s house back in California. The family photos lining the small fireplace. The warm lighting and tan colored walls. Even the smell—something like mahogany and ground coffee.

“We’re here,” Derek calls, maneuvering them through a simple living room and dining room and into the kitchen, where the light spills out of the entrance in a wide arc over the floor. There’s a sound like a spoon hitting the side of a pot, and then Stiles sees Laura at the stove, a white stained apron thrown over her jeans and t-shirt.

“Hey, welcome,” she says over her shoulder, smiling at Stiles and Derek a little sharply. She stirs something in a saucepan, “I’m making spaghetti and meatballs. Hope that’s alright.”

Stiles thinks he says something along the lines of _perfect, yum_ , but he’s not completely sure. He lingers after Derek, who has zeroed in on a bottle of red wine on the counter. Laura appears to just be drinking water, but she clearly knows Derek’s alcohol preferences well.

“Wine?” Derek asks, already pulling two glasses from the cabinet even before Stiles nods. Derek pours him a glass and hands it over, fingers lingering briefly as Stiles takes it from him. Laura isn’t watching them, but she’s gone suspiciously silent.

After just one sip, Stiles feels a bit fizzier in the head. He hasn’t eaten for hours. He welcomes the buzz, though. It makes everything a little less scary.

“So how was work,” Laura finally spins to face them, leaving the sauce to bubble and pasta to cook. She’s got her eyes on Stiles like she’s waiting for him to fuck up and embarrass himself or something.

“It was good,” Derek answers, probably nobly trying to draw her attention to him, but barely getting a glance in response, “Long day. Had a meeting to discuss the budget for next month, and a phone conference with our partners in Chicago.”

Laura nods, a peculiar smile on her face. She turns back to stir the sauce.

“You thought your day way long?” Stiles offers, voice just the smallest bit croaky, “Try revising twelve end-of-the-week reports from the research team. I swear they just BS those so they can turn them in and go home early for the weekend.”

Derek steps closer, rubbing a palm over Stiles’ hip like he can erase his nerves by mere physical contact. Taking a long inhale of wine, he says, “Maybe we should change them to mid-week reports.”

Stiles shrugs, “Eh, they do great work otherwise. Maybe we could just turn the reports into a Friday afternoon meeting and then let them go right after. Might be more efficient and make a whole lot of people happier.”

“Might lead to an office-wide protest in every other department,” Derek sounds amused, “Hell, I’d protest just to be able to leave a few hours earlier on Fridays.”

“Why can’t you? Being the boss has gotta have some perks,” Stiles says, feeling more comfortable as time goes on and he realizes that Laura is not going to immediately pummel him.

“Our Derek here is too well-trained,” Laura eventually speaks up, pulling out some meatballs that were crisping in the oven and depositing them into the sauce. She smiles more genuinely at Stiles while she grabs a collider to drain the spaghetti. “God forbid he take any time off for himself.”

“You’re one to talk,” Derek says indignantly. He steals a piece of spaghetti, head tipping back to drop it into his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah. I work too hard and have no time for my personal life. I’ve heard it all from mom before,” Laura drones, rolling her eyes in what must be some genetic Hale personality tic.

“I get that from my dad all the time,” Stiles says before he can stop himself. Damn this wine.

Laura looks instantly interested, eyes unblinking, “Where’s your family from?”

“My dad is living in California,” Stiles says, probably too casually. He’s hoping he’s never told Derek (as Simon) about growing up in Minnesota. He can’t exactly remember, but he’s thinking that Laura would be able to spot a lie from a mile away. He’s planning on exercising his right to bend the truth as far as possible without actually breaking it tonight.

Laura nods, grabbing a stack of plates and handing them out. She lets Derek serve himself first, but he just slips Stiles’ plate from his hands and starts piling on pasta for Stiles instead. Stiles is almost annoyed that he’s such a gentleman.

“More?” he asks, arm raised to scoop out another meatball. Stiles shakes his head and pretends like he can’t feel Laura watching them like a hawk.

They end up in the dining room, circled around a small table. It’s kinda awkward for a moment, just the sound of forks scraping against plates. Stiles has no idea how to quit being so abnormally silent.

“So,” Derek says after a while, “How was your day at work, Laura?”

She swallows her food quickly, “Pretty slow. I’m still in the middle of a case, and it’s been a long one. Not much evidence to go off of.”

Derek just nods in wary understanding, still silent in a way that makes Stiles speak up.

“How long have you been in law enforcement?”

“Almost five years,” she says, squinting a little. She’s got a meatball stabbed on a fork that she waves around a bit, “Feels like it’s been forever, though.”

Stiles hums in agreement, “NYPD, though—I bet it keeps you busy.”

“Oh, I’m not NYPD,” Laura says following a sip of water, “I’m FBI.”

Stiles chokes a little, prompting Derek to hit his back and make a cute little concerned face.

“Shit,” Stiles says, once he can breathe again, “That’s so awesome.”

And kind of terrifying.

Laura nods, a weird edge to her voice when she adds, “Yeah, specializing in financial crimes.”

Stiles hums, trying with everything he has in him to not react to that.

“This sauce is delicious,” Derek says almost too nonchalantly, “Is it homemade?”

“It’s mom’s recipe,” Laura tilts her head at him like she knows he’s trying to change the subject and she disapproves or something.

They bicker about something and Stiles zones out, eyes trained on his empty plate. _Specializing in financial crimes_. Stiles thinks about Lydia urging him to just tell the Hales the truth, to ask them for help. They’re wealthy, they are literally exactly who Stiles should be reporting Argent to. They could protect everyone he needs to protect.

It’s risky, though. Stiles has grown up a lot since he first started working for Argent, and he’s learned to watch where he steps now, to think through all the options before he acts. He knows well by know that actions have consequences.

It’s why he keeps his mouth shut. Because he can’t take that chance, especially when the Hales could so easily turn against him. Could lawyer up and get Stiles locked away until the day he shrivels up and dies, leaving his dad alone and Argent free to ruin more lives whenever he so pleases.

“I made brownies last night,” Laura offers, addressing both of them but really only looking at Stiles, “They’re in the kitchen.”

Stiles meets Derek’s eyes, pushing his chair out hesitantly.

“Go for it,” Derek nods, hand squeezing Stiles’ knee, “I know your sweet tooth cannot be tamed.”

Stiles slips into the kitchen, finding the pan of brownies and trying not to let it bother him when Laura and Derek break into furious whispers as soon as he leaves the room. He lingers a bit, cutting himself an extra one and eating it over the kitchen sink just to give them more time to discuss whatever they need to.

He walks with heavy steps on his way back to the table, so they aren’t surprised by his return. They still fall suspiciously silent when he turns the corner, though. Stiles would’ve expected more stealth from a federal agent, but he supposes not everyone can be trained from years of lies and deception that way that he’s been.

“Love the brownies,” Stiles says as he settles back into his seat.

“They’re from a box,” Laura mutters, glaring at Derek for something he must’ve said when Stiles wasn’t there. Derek looks unrepentant. He leans back and throws an arm over the back of Stiles’ chair, hand slung lazily against Stiles’ shoulder.

“I stand by my statement,” Stiles shrugs, a hidden attempt to get Derek’s arm to fall against him a little heavier.

Laura and Derek must come to a stalemate or something, because she looks at Stiles and sighs. The corner of her lips curl, almost as if she can’t even help it.

“So tell me about yourself, Simon,” she says finally, sounding vaguely resigned.

Stiles’ mouth opens, but he’s not sure where to start. He’s a pro at rambling and talking so much that nobody realizes he hasn’t said much at all. He can’t incriminate himself here, though. And he has a weird feeling that he’s already on Laura’s bad side.

“C’mon,” she tips her empty glass at him, “As unprofessional as it may be, you two are seeing each other. And as Derek’s sister, I am obligated to grill you and threaten castration if you hurt him, yada yada yada.”

Stiles huffs a laugh, “That’s fair.”

He gathers his thoughts, tracing the wood grain of the table with his eyes for a moment. Eventually he nods and looks up, meeting Laura’s gaze dead-on.

“I am totally not good enough for your brother,” Stiles says honestly, talking right over the indignant noise that Derek makes, “Like, I don’t even understand why he likes me at all.”

_Probably because you created a persona that would guarantee he’d fall for you_ , Stiles thinks. He trudges on with his speech, nonetheless. If anything, Laura has this intrigued gleam in her eyes now.

“I mean, he’s so incredibly out of my league. And kind, even if he hides it well under his grumpy asshole mask. I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t really want to work at Hale Co for the rest of my life. I don’t think I even like New York that much. I’ve been going out of my fucking mind, trying to do just one thing right in my life for once. Trying to not selfishly ruin everything I touch, and it’s like. He makes me feel so happy, so safe and cared for. I don’t deserve him, not even a little bit.”

There’s a shocked silence that follows Stiles’ words. Stiles can feel the heat of Derek’s eyes on him, unwavering and wide with surprise. Stiles forces himself not to look, just keeps staring at Laura, who seems stunned. She looks at him like he’s not at all who she thought he was, a confused tilt to her head.

“Huh,” she says, frozen for a few more seconds before she stands and grabs all their empty plates. Derek moves to help, but she just waves him away and disappears into the kitchen. Over the sound of dishes clanking in the dishwasher, Derek whispers.

“What the hell was that all about?”

He’s got this almost amazed look on his face, like he can’t believe Stiles is even real.

“I was just trying to be honest,” Stiles shrugs, voice tapering off as Derek leans in closer to him. Their faces are nearly touching, sharing heat. Stiles can just barely feel the tickle of Derek’s stubble. Derek runs his nose up Stiles’ cheek, inhales deeply at his temple and presses a soft kiss high on his cheekbone. He pulls away just as Laura comes back into the room.

“Yes, yes, adorable declarations were made. That does not mean you can make out at my dining room table,” she drones with an indulgent smile. When she looks at Stiles, she seems warmer somehow. Still wary of him, but less abrasive. Stiles smiles back easily, unthinkingly.

Later, he lets Derek push him against the side of the car and lick deep into his mouth while Laura flicks her porch light on and off until they finally get the hint and leave.

-

**New York, New York**

Derek gets more affectionate after their dinner with Laura, constantly wrapping his arms around Stiles’ waist or breathing against his neck or tangling their fingers together whenever they’re not in the office.

They still have unbelievable amounts of sex, but sometimes Derek slows his thrusts down into a toe-curling grind. Or keeps their lips attached the whole time, swallowing every one of Stiles’ moans. It’s scary how much Stiles likes the new closeness. It makes it harder to even think about finishing the job.

If Argent knew how many times Stiles has been alone with Derek’s computer without ever making a move to plug the USB into it, he’s sure he’d be dead by now. Or maybe locked up with all his friends and family dead. Either way, Argent would mete out whatever life-ruining punishment he saw fit.

So Stiles stays on his toes, always vigilant. He refuses to succumb to the debilitating paranoia, but he can’t exactly ignore the weird nervous feeling in his stomach. He’s just scared, unsure of what the next move will be. Because Argent is definitely planning on doing something.

Stiles just hugs Derek back, a little tighter. He runs his fingers through his hair and kisses down his spine and just leans against the plane of his chest sometimes, needing the support. They work like they normally do, and they order take-out and watch mindless television. And Stiles loves it, wishes the entire time that this was his life and he didn’t have to worry about the other side of it—the side that’s too reminiscent of an awful crime movie, just bad plot twist after bad plot twist.

He shouldn’t even be surprised, really, when the next Thursday there’s a jarring voice heard all the way from the lobby near Cora. He looks up, eyes immediately finding Lydia across the room. Their gazes lock, twin pale faces and shock.

Stiles isn’t sure how he just _knows_ ; he’s never met the woman. There’s a horrible ball of dread deep in his gut, churning up a terrifying thing he’s never really felt before. Stiles knows, though, eyes following the blond woman who struts across the floor with a smirk, bypassing checking in with Kira completely and jerking open the door to Derek’s office.

He knows that it’s Kate Argent who has just shut herself in that room with Derek.


	8. Chapter 8

Kate is in Derek’s office for exactly 24 minutes. Stiles knows because he spends the entire time staring at the clock on his computer in stress. He tries his best to act normal, because nobody else seems to think anything weird is going on.

Isaac throws a paper airplane at his head around minute 14. When Stiles unfolds it, he sees the paper is covered in crude little cartoons of Stiles with heart-eyes and Derek with a ripped set of abs. Stiles pins it up to the inside of his cubicle and sends Isaac two thumbs up, forcing himself to pull his mouth into some kind of smirk.

Lydia seems tense, but not enough that Stiles would notice it if he weren’t looking for it specifically. She types just the slightest bit more aggressively than usual, a small line on the side of her mouth from her pinched lips. Hey eyes don’t leave her desk when Kate finally leaves.

Stiles is far less subtle, gaze tracking the blond head as she makes her way back to the elevator. She doesn’t spare anyone else a glance, but she looks pleased—as if she can tell that she has Stiles’ full attention.

Stiles gives it a full three minutes—he forces himself to actually count in his head—before he gets up to wander casually into Derek’s office. It’s not out of the ordinary for Stiles to slack off to hang with Derek, but he’s so paranoid that it feels like the entire office is watching him. He sits in the chair across from Derek’s desk, legs splayed wide, just like he usually does.

Derek is clicking away at his computer with an angry frown, not acknowledging Stiles in the slightest. He’s loosened his tie slightly, and his jaw is a hard, clenched line. Behind him, the sun has just begun a slow creep over the carpeted floor, highlighting a few spare dust motes floating around and the leather back of Derek’s desk chair, just barely.

“Who was that lady?” Stiles asks finally, feigning distraction and staring at a spot of blue sky out the window.

Derek doesn’t pause in his laptop-tapping at all, doesn’t even try to form any kind of non-verbal answer. He gives absolutely no sign that he even heard Stiles at all. Which is so unbelievably unlike Derek that Stiles is suddenly very afraid of what Kate Argent could have said to him.

“Der?” Stiles stands from the chair, stepping around the desk so he can put a hand on Derek’s shoulder or head or anywhere, really. Derek jerks away, halting halfway through the movement as if he didn’t mean to do it. His eyes have closed, thick lashes throwing dark, circular shadows just underneath.

Stiles doesn’t move, his hand still hovering awkwardly from his aborted attempt to make contact. He doesn’t speak either, just feels his heart speed up into a terrifying frenzy.

“Just—nobody,” Derek finally says, shoulders dropping from where they’d been hunched and eyes blinking open, “The executive manager from some investment company interested in hiring Hale Co to revamp their image. Doesn’t matter. I declined—not really the kind of project we’re looking for.”

Stiles doesn’t mention that they’ve done similar things for a few brokerage companies and even banks. He also doesn’t move any closer, still a little wary of the way Derek had flinched away from him earlier. Stiles hums and tucks his hands into his back pockets, lets his weight rock back on his heels as nonchalantly as he can. There’s a long silence.

Derek looks up at him eventually, and whatever he sees on Stiles’ face make his own expression go a bit frowny. He turns in his desk chair, using his feet to wheel it a little closer until his knees spread and bracket both Stiles’ legs. His eyes fall somewhere around Stiles’ chest and he sits for a moment, just watching it expand with each breath.

They’re not even really touching, but the position is intimate. Stiles feels weirdly off-balance looking down at Derek, anchored by the gentle squeeze of inner thighs against his own legs but no other source of contact. He wants desperately to put a hand on the back of Derek’s neck. Wants to press his palm there so he can lean forward farther, bend his spine and curve his body into a safe home where Derek won’t get that blankly suspicious look on his face ever again. He refrains, but he does trail a hand down to the arm of Derek’s chair just to pick at a loose thread peaking from the leather.

“I mean, she’s not nobody, actually,” Derek says, surprising Stiles with both the words and a sneaky grab at where his hand is messing with the chair. Derek plays with his fingers idly, taking his time to figure out what he wants to say. Stiles is glad he had the foresight to shut the office door when he came in. Derek sighs heavily, “Her name is Kate Argent. I used to—we _dated_ , a few years ago.”

Stiles just—Stiles is _shocked_. He can feel his mouth hanging open, can hear the startled jump in his voice when he instinctively blurts, “ _Really_?”

It’s probably a strange reaction for someone who is just finding out about an ex from the person they’re currently seeing. Stiles can’t take it back, though. He just tries his best to reign it in, to not think too hard about how his assumptions that the woman was Kate were correct and how Argent has decided to get his family involved after all. He briefly wonders how coincidental it is that this mark— _Derek_ —is Argent’s endgame, and his own daughter happens to have a history with Derek. There’s a tug deep in Stiles’ gut of something not right, of some pieces missing from the puzzle. He realizes after far too long that he’s been spacing out in deep thought, staring at the wall behind Derek’s head.

He looks down and catches Derek’s eye, suspects he was being watched the entire time. Derek doesn’t look skeptical of his reaction at all, though. He just gazes evenly, patiently, as if giving Stiles time to soak it all in.

“It didn’t… end well,” he concludes, not going into the specifics and losing a little bit of the tension in his face when he realizes Stiles won’t ask him to. Stiles wonders, he really wonders if this whole thing—the entire attack on Derek and his family’s finances—is some convoluted revenge for a bad break-up that happened years ago. He ponders the likelihood of that, thinks about how fucking insane Gerard Argent is and figures that his daughter could realistically be just as crazy. Is her presence just meant to be a threat to Stiles, though? He’s failing to see how she could ever get closer to Derek than Stiles can. Unless she just wants to taunt, wants to hurt Derek even more just before he loses everything—all his money and the man who supposedly has him wrapped around a finger.

“Why would she—” Stiles cuts himself off, worried that in his mental spiral he’ll blurt out something he didn’t mean to. He’s just wondering about her angle, about why she thinks Derek would ever buy into the idea that the family investment company would want to work with Hale Advertising.

Derek doesn’t answer the unfinished question, but his hand tightens reflexively around Stiles’ fingers still in his grasp, as if he knows exactly what she was doing coming to visit him in his office under the pretense of a work meeting. He doesn’t say anything, and Stiles can tell he’s slowly tensing up again, withdrawing into himself. Derek drops Stiles’ hand and pushes himself back to sit at his desk properly. The outsides of Stiles’ legs feel cold.

“Just get back to work,” Derek says, a little gruffly—a little angrily. He goes back to his computer, which has reverted to the screensaver in the time they were huddled together, and starts typing something as soon as it’s unlocked again.

Stiles does go back to work, getting the impression that Derek really doesn’t want him in the room anymore and not willing to push the matter like he typically would.

-

It’s a long, stressful day.

Stiles spends over half of it deep in thought, trying to connect the dots and figure out what actually is going on, figure out what kind of game he’s been roped into being a pawn for. Lydia sends him a few weighted looks, so characteristically curious that it’s almost calming to see her like that. Stiles can’t deal with an interrogation, though, so he smiles falsely at her and pretends to continue approving project reports. It makes her look even more furious each time.

The floor clears out quickly once the work day ends, almost as if everyone can feel the tension radiating from Derek’s office and have come to the general consensus that they should get the hell out of there. Stiles barely notices them leaving, too engrossed in a mind map he’s working on in an attempt to get the facts straight. He’s written it in code, and he’ll shred it afterwards, but he still hunches over his desk in fear that someone will see what he’s writing. It helps him focus—connecting people and events, the past and the present, motives and actions.

His phone rings, which is what makes him look up and realize that literally the only other people still here are him and Finstock, who looks harried and aggravated to be kept at the office so long. He’s already packed up and left by the second ring of Stiles’ phone, angry grumbling cutting off when the elevator closes.

It takes some digging, because the ringing is coming from his burner phone, which is buried deep in a hidden pocket in his bag. He rushes to the bathroom, locking the door and quickly ducking to make sure he can’t see anyone else’s feet in any of the stalls. He answers without looking at the number, assuming it’s Lydia.

It’s not Lydia.

“Stiles,” the woman’s voice purrs, throaty and teasing. He gulps, breath freezing in his chest.

“I’m annoyed I had to get involved, Stiles,” she continues as if he had actually acknowledged her, “I want this done within the week. If you can’t do it yourself, I’m going back there to cause a scene so you can slip into his office and finish this.”

Stiles searches for his voice, finding it rough and creaky, “How do you know that would work?”

“Aw, you’re cute. I’m very good at getting under Derek Hale’s skin, Stiles. You just need to stop being so selfish—I know he’s pretty, sweetheart, but it’s a little sad how attached you seem.”

“Not attached,” he denies, heart pounding against his ribcage because he’s _lying_.

“Good,” the voice hums, snake-like and pleased, “Because I know my daddy has some friends he’s warned you about, but _my_ friends are much more fun. And they’re on vacation right now—this adorable little town in California, you’d love it. The Sheriff there is such a _hunk_ —”

“Okay,” Stiles interrupts, unable to listen to her threats anymore, “I can do it, just. Don’t.”

She laughs, a low gut sound just before she says, “We’ll be waiting.”

The line goes dead. Stiles can hear the laugh still echoing in his ears, around the cold tiled bathroom walls. She has her father’s laugh. It only further confirms that the call came from Kate Argent.

Still attempting to calm himself down, Stiles slips back out from the bathroom. The call wasn’t more than a few minutes, but Stiles sees that Derek’s office door is open now. He thinks it was closed before. He approaches warily. He needs—he needs something. A hug, or an eyeroll, just anything to make the world feel less like it’s ending. He detours to his desk to stash his burner back in his bag and then hovers just outside Derek’s door. The room is empty.

The chair is pushed out like he’d left quickly, laptop still open on the desk. Stiles wanders in, wondering if maybe he needed the bathroom and had to go to another floor because Stiles had locked himself in the closest one. Slowly stepping closer, Stiles reaches a finger out to run over the USB port on the side of the computer. He thinks maybe he should just— _no_ , he cuts off that train of thought, instead imagining Derek’s teasing smile and crinkled eyes. Stiles just _can’t_. He feels torn in two, feels a hurt deep in his belly born from how desperately he wants to protect everyone he loves. Because he knows that he can’t, really. He’s weak and defenseless and he’s the cause of the hurt at the end of the day. So he holds it there under his lungs, like a heavy stone that catches with each inhale, never letting him draw a full breath.

There’s a weird sound from somewhere near the break area, and Stiles turns away from the desk completely. It’s like cars beeping, or street noise, louder than it should be indoors. Stiles follows it, walking towards it in a bit of a daze.

Tucked into a small nook that Stiles has never noticed before, there’s a door with a small sign that reads _Roof Access_. After a long car horn sound, Stiles is positive that the sounds are coming from behind the door, so he pushes it open and slips through. It leads to a short set of stairs and another door—this one propped open by what looks like a shoe, early evening light slipping through the crack and illuminating the steps.

Stiles climbs up carefully, opening the door enough that he can fit through but making sure it doesn’t close completely, the shoe still shoved in the way. The roof is just a square slab of concrete, lined with a concrete and steel railing about waist high. It’s dotted with a few exhaust fans and a small structure that the door is fixed to. It’s strangely incompatible with the sleek, glass that the rest of Hale Co consists of.

Derek is on the opposite side of the roof, silhouetted against the purpling sky as he looks out at the city. It’s kind of beautiful—lights in the distance, sun painting a pretty sight as it slips down the horizon. Stiles walks closer, sees that Derek has his other shoe in his hands, just turning it over and over again like a nice little Italian leather rotisserie chicken. If he hears Stiles behind him, he shows no sign of it.

“Well this is dramatic,” Stiles says eventually, voice coming out quieter than he means it to. Derek jumps, just barely, glancing over his shoulder quickly before refocusing on something in the distance. Stiles comes a few steps closer, still too far too touch but enough that he won’t have to yell. “Cool, though. I didn’t even know there was roof access.”

After a minute, Derek speaks, “What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t turn around, just says it like he’s addressing the building across the street.

“I was looking for you,” Stiles answers, feeling unsure. Maybe he should’ve just left Derek alone to brood and work through whatever is clearly bothering him. It’s too late now, though. Derek mumbles something, too soft over the wind and the movement on the ground all around them.

“What?” Stiles moves closer, just behind Derek’s shoulder. He wants Derek to turn around, wants to see his face and maybe bury himself in his neck a little.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Derek says louder—brash, like he’s repeating himself, but also so so tired. Stiles watches the clench of his jaw, the squint on the side of the one eye he can see from where he’s standing. It feels like the worst thing Derek’s ever said to him, and he doesn’t even know what it really means.

“Do what anymore?” Stiles’ chest clenches, heart somewhere up in his throat. Despite this, he’s somehow unsurprised. He’s been mentally preparing himself to leave Derek for as long as they’ve known each other. He just didn’t expect it to happen like this. He doesn’t _want_ it to happen like this, doesn’t want this to be some reaction to the resurfaced trauma from Kate or whatever is going on.

Stiles has a sudden, visceral desire to be completely honest. He wants to tell Derek everything, more than he ever has before. He refuses, absolutely _refuses_ , to lie anymore. He wants Derek’s full trust, wants him aware of the people who plan to hurt him so those people can get sent away forever and Derek can be safe and happy and never in danger again. Never mind that it’s completely the wrong time for incriminating confessions, Derek hasn’t spoken and Stiles is bursting out of his skin with how bad he wants to blurt out everything.

“I, um. I have to tell you something,” Stiles’ voice comes out thick, the result of his lungs feeling like they’re shrinking up like two little vacuum-seal bags. Derek doesn’t even twitch, just spins his shoe in his hand in a steady rotation. It helps Stiles focus a little. “So you know Kate, from earlier. I’ve never met her, but I know of her. Like, just rumors. Bad ones.”

That’s a good place to start, probably, Stiles thinks. Kate’s already the villain, so if Stiles can just keep her that way then maybe he won’t look so evil in comparison.

“And I know these rumors because I used to kind of work for her family—for her dad. Or well, I guess I still do, but. I’m trying to like _not_. Work for them anymore. I think.”

Derek’s hands pause, then start to rotate the opposite direction. Stiles flounders, expecting a little more of a reaction.

“Just, uh, please let me explain everything before you hate me and send me away or something. Because it’s not—not what you think—”

“I already know,” Derek says, inflectionless. There’s no further explanation given.

“Um, what?”

Derek pivots on a socked heel so he can look at Stiles right in the eye. His face is a perfect mask—blank and unbelievably gorgeous. The wind makes his hair stir a bit, fluffing it up into soft tufts.

“I already know, Simon,” Derek says gruffly. He turns away, “Or whatever your name is.”

 _Know what? How_? _Since when_? Stiles feels brimming with questions. There’s no way he can make his vocal cords cooperate, not with how all the breath feels sucked out of his body. He takes a shaky step to the side, knees a bit too unbalanced to be maneuvering around the top of a building right now. He just wants to better see Derek’s face.

His expression is cast in shadow, though. The sun—long sunk into the skyline—was at their backs. It throws purple light around, bounces it off glass windows from the buildings surrounding them so Derek’s stubble seems washed in it. His brows are so furrowed they block the dying light from his eyes, just two dark pools of iris that won’t look anywhere near Stiles.

Stiles suddenly remembers Derek in his office asleep, at the park chasing ducks, at the museum looking at a painting of a water lily pond. The easy smile, the spark in his eyes making Stiles feel constantly alight. The contrast to the Derek on this roof hits Stiles so hard for a moment that he needs to close his eyes against it.

“When I dated Kate, she lied to me. Tried to drain all the family bank accounts,” Derek says simply. Without emotion, as if he’s reading off a grocery list, “There was no proof, though. We couldn’t press charges. Laura couldn’t officially be put on the case—conflict of interest—but she’s been following it for years.”

That’s—it’s horrible. And Stiles didn’t know that, he didn’t _know_. He inhales, preparing to say _something_ , to ask something or explain himself or _anything_.

“And so naturally Laura’s been keeping an eye on you,” Derek speaks before Stiles can, “And Kate and Lily and whoever else. There was still never any concrete evidence, though. You’re all very good at covering your tracks.”

Stiles shakes his head frantically, feeling—he doesn’t even know. “No,” his voice is hoarse, “I’m not—you don’t understa—”

“But I’m fucking tired now. I don’t want to… Just do whatever you need to do to my computer and leave.”

Humiliatingly, Stiles feels the back of his eyes go hot, like he’s gonna cry or something. He vaguely realizes he’s still shaking his head, “How long have you—”

The words break off, snap off into silence like they’ve gone brittle on the way out. There’s a long, heavy silence. Stiles watches a pigeon land on the railing a few yards away, head bobbing without a care in the world.

“Laura warned me before your initial interview at Hale Co. She wasn’t sure, but she just wanted to let me know. That you might try to. To _seduce_ me. We moved some money around just in case, set up a few emergency accounts. She wanted more evidence, she wanted—” Derek’s voice cracks, the most horrible sound Stiles has ever heard. It’s the first time he’s seemed to lose composure during his explanation, and Stiles feels winded from how badly he wants to comfort. “She wanted me to let you do it.”

It physically hurts, to hear the shake in Derek’s voice, the low simmer of fury and _pain_. Stiles has this awful out-of-body feeling, going numb to the bite of wind and the suffocating in his chest. He hears the street noise like a background soundtrack, sees the tense line of Derek’s shoulders like something from a movie scene. Somewhere beyond his awareness, he hears his own voice hitch.

“Since—you knew? This whole time?” Stiles thinks he tries to sound angry, or indignant, or something. He really doesn’t have it in him, though. He just feels shocked and gutted—insides ripped from him in one quick swipe.

“Don’t—don’t try to play the victim here,” Derek sounds entirely livid, finally. He turns to face Stiles completely, eyes alive with a scary sheen of rage. He breathes and it shakes on the way in, exposing something else in his face—something that looks like a deep fracture of agony. Stiles feels his hackles rise despite it, feels his defenses come up in that petty way they always have—lashing out like a scared cat.

“What were you—were you like some kind of double agent or something? Trying to hurt me back? Thought you’d play with me a little bit before you catch me and lock me up?”

“You’re such a—” Derek advances on him, looming in a way that makes him seem bigger than he is. Stiles stumbles back a step or two, not because he’s afraid, but because the storm in Derek’s eyes feels like a physical force. “You’re one to talk. Countless opportunities to get to me, but you just. Why—why would you do that?”

The question comes out like a whine—like Derek naked in bed, begging Stiles to stay the night, begging him not to go away yet. It’s softer, trailing off into a hurt little silence that’s just the both of them breathing difficulty. Stiles stares hard at Derek—beautiful Derek—and he has no words at all. It’s very unlike Stiles, to have nothing to say. He’s upset at the way neither of them can even seem to finish a sentence, neither of them can do anything to address the tangle of betrayal now woven around their limbs.

“I didn’t _want_ to. Argent, he. I didn’t want to hurt you because I fell in fucking _love_ with you.”

Derek flinches, as if Stiles has slapped him or something. His eyes go wide, looking almost translucent in the dim light. He’s framed by a long line of skyscrapers, the yellow-green glow of light pollution creeping into the sky and a single bird cutting through the backdrop. Stiles presses a hand to his own ribs, because he feels them ache like a real, physical punch.

Derek looks worse suddenly, as if Stiles loving him makes this a million times _worse_. It’s so fucking pitiful—just another sad scene in this horrible movie that is Stiles’ life. A constant barrage of groin kicks and broken teeth and seeping hearts ripped open. Stiles can’t even swallow, can’t even release the tight clench of his throat enough to make a sound at all when Derek turns to flee towards the door. He just drops that stupid fucking shoe and leaves. And Stiles can’t think anything beyond the stream of _don’t leave don’t leave please don’t leave me_ running through his head.

-

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Stiles is glad that Derek didn’t stop to retrieve the shoe propping open the door on his way off the roof. Stiles isn’t quite sure what he would’ve done if he’d found himself locked on the roof. Derek is absent from the floor when Stiles manages to steady his legs enough to leave as well. He’s barely cognizant of his surroundings at all as he grabs all his things and high-tails it out of there.

He thinks maybe he should be looking out a little more carefully to ensure he’s not being followed by any of Argent’s men, but he just can’t. He finds himself at Lydia’s door without really remembering how he got there. After one look at his face, she herds him inside and turns the TV up to a deafening volume, like she’s worried about people listening in.

“What happened?” she sounds panicked, rubbing at Stiles’ shoulders like it’ll help him stop his near-frantic breathing.

“He knows,” Stiles pants, words sounding almost slurred, “He knows everything and he knows I love him and he hates me. And Argent is gonna kill you and Scott and my _dad_ and I’ll be alone and I _can’t_ , Lydia.”

There’s a blurred flurry of strawberry blond hair, and the feeling of being moved to the couch. Lydia is speaking—the low hum of her voice a comfort to Stiles. Her hands are everywhere, rubbing down his arms and back and the clammy sides of his neck. Once Stiles is more conscious of what’s going on, he realizes he’s got his face buried against the soft shoulder of her sweatshirt. It smells familiar, like laundry detergent. He takes a deep breath and feels it expand his entire body, the first beat of relief since the rooftop.

Stiles sits up, supports his own weight and wipes away what feels ridiculously like tears. Lydia hesitates, then swoops out of the room. She returns quickly, grabbing his hand even though the back of it is smeared with snot.

“I told you I had an idea,” she says softly, like she’s not sure Stiles is ready to hear her plan. She must understand the urgency of the situation, though, because she pushes on, “I’ve been in contact with Allison. Her and her father put this together.”

She pushes something into Stiles’ hand—a small purple USB drive. Stiles is really sick of all these fucking USB drives.

“It’s a digital copy of as many of the files from previous missions that they could get their hands on,” Lydia continues, lips bitten pink with obvious stress, “From our team; from other teams undercover that we didn’t even know about. It’s incomplete, but it’s evidence. Both Allison and her dad want to stay underground, but they think it’s a good idea for _someone_ to go to the police. To stop Gerard.”

“I thought all the files were always destroyed,” Stiles says dumbly, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Is that really important?” Lydia’s voice is gentle, but sharply alert, “We can drop this off somewhere for Derek’s sister with a note explaining everything and then run. Allison gave me coordinates for a safehouse—completely off the grid. We can get _out_ , Stiles.”

It’s so tempting. For a moment, Stiles wants it so badly that he aches with it. He thinks of Derek, though. His painfully vulnerable expression, the strong cut of his cheekbones. He thinks of Derek never getting the full explanation that he deserves. Stiles shakes his head.

“I have to explain it myself,” he mumbles, “I have to take _responsibility_.”

“Okay,” Lydia soothes him, rubbing a circle against his lower spine, “We’ll go together, we—”

“No,” Stiles stands up suddenly, quick enough that spots swim in his vision for a moment, “You go to the safehouse. Don’t let anyone follow you. I’ll explain everything to Laura, I just need you _protected_.”

“Stiles,” she sounds ready to argue, standing so she doesn’t have to look up at him and jutting her chin out in the know-it-all way that Lydia has long since mastered.

“I mean it. I need to do this alone.”

Lydia stares at him but doesn’t say anything else. Stiles knows she has no desire to go to the police. She would do it, if he asked her to. But he’s not asking—would never ask. He hugs her fiercely, hand clenching the USB even as his arms wind around her back. She hugs back like she’s trying to squeeze his torso into a new shape and lets him leave without another word.

-

On the way to the subway station, Stiles turns off his iPhone and calls Deaton on his burner. He feels slightly bad for keeping Deaton in the dark through all of this, but he’s happy to have escaped the well-masked tongue lashing he’s sure he would’ve gotten had Deaton been kept informed.

“Stiles?”

“I’m exposing Argent. There’s a safehouse—contact Lyds if you want to know where,” Stiles says in lieu of a greeting. There’s no response. Stiles swerves through a crowd of tourists, turning a quick corner.

“Just wanted to give you a heads up, to make sure you look out for Argent or FBI. I’m… sorry about this, Alan. I just—”

“Yes, I expected this eventually, Stiles,” he sounds calm, if not a little resigned, “Thank you for the warning.”

“Yeah. Sure, no probs,” Stiles says, at a loss for words once again tonight.

“I wish you good luck with everything.”

“You—you too.”

Deaton hangs up. Stiles doesn’t expect to ever hear from him again. Deaton was always too good at hiding to not have a pile of secrets stashed away somewhere. He’ll most likely be on a plane out of the country before sunrise.

Stiles removes the battery from his burner, taking the subway before getting off to double back on a different train—eyes steady on everyone around him. He wanders an awkward, looping route, making sure there’s no one tailing him. The night is dark by now, but the streets are still busy. Stiles finds cover in the pedestrians; pulls on a baseball cap he had in his bag and keeps his gate casual. He mazes around for a good half hour before slipping into the tall, window-heavy building.

They’re technically closed for the day, but Stiles must look wild with anxiety because when he speaks to the guards at the security desk in a panicked whisper, they actually pick up the phone to make a call upstairs.

It only takes maybe five minutes for the elevator to ding open, heels clacking on the floor behind Stiles. He doesn’t turn yet, still keeps his eyes on the entrance to make sure there’s nobody watching him, nobody who followed him here. The security guards are looking warily between him and the new presence behind him.

“Simon.”

Stiles turns around.

“Laura,” he greets, “Call me Stiles.” 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did not forget about this fic!! i'm so sorry for the long wait between updates, i've been going through some personal stuff & wasn't in a great place to write & i definitely didn't want to halfass the last few chapters just for the sake of finishing. anyways i finally FINALLY am pumped to finish this fic up and i just wanna thank you all for being patient with me. there will be one more chapter after this one, i hope you enjoy!!

Stiles has no clue how long he’s been sitting in this interrogation room, but his head is starting to pound from the eerie blue lighting. He’s hungry too, he thinks, but the adrenaline from earlier is stunting him from feeling it. On the table in front of him, he’s lined up his iPhone, burner, Argent USB and the smaller purple USB that he’s betting everything on—all in a neat little row.

He’s got his fake Simon Hayes identification in a wallet clenched in his left hand too. His real ID is in another wallet, this one in his pocket. He was surprised Laura had let him keep it when she’d been frisking him for weapons earlier. He’ll show it to her, but only after he works out some kind of deal to protect his dad.

Like the worst cliché, there’s a one-way mirror on the wall opposite Stiles. He flinches the first time he sees his reflection—pale, gaunt and disturbingly exhausted. He looks horrible and strung out already. He makes a point to avoid looking at the mirror again.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the door opens and Laura enters. She’s alone, clutching a file folder under her arm, and her face is a harsh mask. Despite this, Stiles hears himself sigh in relief. Five more minutes alone and he’s sure he would’ve gone out of his mind.

“I apologize for the delay,” Laura says, pulling out the chair on the other side of the table, “We were waiting for a few more people to arrive.”

Her voice is inhumanely steady, giving nothing away. There’s something there, though. Something in her face or her tone that gives Stiles pause. He feels his heart jump up somewhere near his esophagus, cheeks somehow paling further.

“Is he here?” Stiles is helpless to ask, eyes going back to the mirror even though he can’t see anything past his own terrified eyes—honey colored and rimmed just barely with red. He’s not sure what he wants the answer to be, not sure if his question even makes any sense to Laura.

“Stiles,” she says sharply, and Stiles’ eyes snap to her fast as a fucking lightning strike. His name—he didn’t realize how much he missed just hearing his name from anyone who wasn’t his dad or a part of his team. Her voice softens slightly, “It is Stiles, right?”

Stiles watches her cautiously, his fingers tapping a rapid beat over the wallet in his hand.

“It’s Stiles,” he confirms. He breathes deep and settles further into his chair, trying to move to a more comfortable position where his ass won’t fall asleep, “I’ll tell you everything you wanna know, but only if you do something for me.”

Laura looks almost amused at this, propping a chin in her hand and raising her eyebrow in a way that reminds Stiles so painfully of Derek he has to drop his eyes away. She tilts her head, “Only if I do something for you? You think you’re in any position to be discussing a deal with me?”

Stiles doesn’t say anything to that. Honestly, yes. He does think he’s in a position to do that. The Kate Argent case has been open for too many years for them to turn down a lead like this. Laura is just trying to play with him or intimidate him or do something that Stiles really has no patience for. Stiles’ dad is a fucking sheriff; he’s been navigating his way through interrogation techniques since he learned how to speak. They hold their eye contact for an uncomfortably long time, the silence stretching on between them.

“What do you want?” Laura cracks, sooner than Stiles would’ve expected her to. She’s too involved in the case, Stiles thinks. It makes her weak, and for a moment Stiles wonders why her superiors are allowing her to do the questioning.

“I thought… Why are you the one interrogating me? I thought you weren’t on the case?” Stiles can’t help but ask. Sue him; he’s dangerously curious sometimes.

Laura’s eyes flash like he’s said something horribly wrong, “The team on the Argent case are all very much involved. They assumed you’d be more comfortable chatting with me, however if you’d rather—”

“No,” Stiles says quickly, because the thought of talking to anyone else right now kind of makes him want to be sick, “Please no.”

Laura nods, eyes softening a little like she understands. She waits while Stiles gathers his thoughts.

“First and foremost,” Stiles gives Laura a hard look so she knows how serious he is, “I need you to protect my dad. He doesn’t… Nothing can happen to him. He doesn’t know anything about any of this.”

There’s a brief pause, but Laura nods her agreement without much hassle.

“And I need you to protect Derek. Just keep him safe until the Argents and all their guys are in custody,” Stiles adds. Laura frowns a little confusedly and looks like she might interrupt, so Stiles continues, “And I need protection and immunity for my team. That’s Lydia, Scott and Alan Deaton. I… don’t even know if those are their real names. And Allison and Chris Argent as well—they’re the whole reason for the flash drive of evidence.”

Laura waits, like she’s expecting more, but Stiles feels satisfied with his requests.

“Alright,” Laura starts thoughtfully, “So you’d like protection for your father, for Derek, and protection and immunity for your team?”

“Yes.”

A pause, then, “What about you?”

There’s something in the way she’s looking at him that makes Stiles a little self-conscious. Stiles doesn’t know her well, has only spoken to her twice before this and was mostly trying not to freak out both of those times. Still, she seems more focused than she usually is—her attention unwavering on him like she’s keeping note of every little twitch of his finger.

“Me?” Stiles asks, too thrown by the question to understand what she’s asking.

“You don’t want any immunity or protection for yourself?”

Stiles has to stare at her for a few seconds. He hadn’t much considered anything beyond getting himself in front of Laura Hale, protecting his loved ones and getting the Argents locked up. Sure, it’d be nice not to be murdered immediately after he leaves this place. There’s a heavy ball of guilt in his stomach, though, that makes him hesitate.

“Whatever you think I deserve,” he says finally, thinking of Derek’s pained face on the rooftop.

Laura is quiet for a very long time, just watching him. Eventually, she agrees, “You have a deal.”

“My dad is Sheriff John Stilinski in Beacon Hills, California. Argent had men posted there to keep an eye on him and threaten me so just— _be careful_ ,” Stiles says at once, a bit overly eager to make sure his dad is alright. Laura waits to see if he’ll say more, then turns to nod at the mirror behind her. Stiles feels a little bit of tension bleed out of his shoulders, though his mind still feels like it’s about to implode or something.

After a moment, Stiles realizes that Laura is just staring at him, as if waiting. Resigned, he sighs. His dad would absolutely murder him if he ever found out Stiles spoke to police without a lawyer present. He’ll probably also murder Stiles if he finds out that he didn’t get himself immunity when he had the chance. And if he finds out that he made a deal without drafting up a contract or _something_. All he has is Laura’s word. Stiles wishes he cared a little more about that.

“My name is Stiles Stilinski,” he starts, fumbling his real wallet out of his pocket, “Or, well Stiles is a nickname because my real name looks like a keyboard smash, but everyone calls me Stiles.”

Laura looks at his ID for a bit, jots something down in a small notepad and doesn’t speak.

“Okay. Okay, so I’ll just start from the beginning,” Stiles says, hating how it comes out more like a question. He glances at the mirror behind Laura and hopes more than anything that Derek is there to hear his explanation. He deserves to hear this. The truth, finally. Stiles isn’t that lucky, though.

“Well, uh, I guess it started when my mom got sick. It was cancer. Messy and long. I was nine when she died,” Stiles’ voice wavers a bit. He hasn’t told anyone about her in a long, long time. Except for Derek, Stiles thinks. He told Derek. He trudges on, “Hospital bills are expensive. And my dad was still just a deputy at the time. We made it work, but it was just us. No other family around to help us out.”

Stiles feels jittery. He can only see Laura, but he can feel the attention of others. His fingers twitch, spinning the burner phone on the table in a circle, around and around.

“When I was fifteen, my dad got stabbed. He’d been promoted to sheriff—wasn’t even supposed to be on duty but he was filling in for someone. It was dumb. So fucking stupid, just some call about a couple guys loitering outside the bowling alley,” Stiles spins the phone faster and can’t make himself look up at Laura’s face, “Anyways, there was some internal organ damage and he needed surgery. He spent a couple weeks in the hospital.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, tries to ignore how his eyes burn. His cheeks feel prickly hot with embarrassment for some reason. Maybe it’s not so surprising, though. Now that he’s letting himself process it, he feels ashamed. Ashamed of himself and all the choices he’s made to bring him here.

“But I guess Gerard Argent approached me when I was eighteen. Since my mom,” Stiles hesitates, halts the movement of the burner phone with his thumb, “Since my mom, my dad had been drinking a lot—not taking care of himself. Just before I graduated high school, he had a heart attack. He was okay, but it was just more hospital bills. And by then, it was no secret around town that the Stilinski family had some money troubles. No one had ever really said anything about it, except for me getting pushed around a bit at school.”

Stiles takes a little break in his storytelling, trying to calm his pounding heart. Laura looks endlessly patient, if not a bit cold. There’s a sharp knock at the door and a man steps through holding two steaming styrofoam cups. Stiles almost does a double take when he realizes that it’s the German Shepherd man from his breakfast with Deaton and his walk past Central Park that one evening. They’ve been trailing him this entire time, Stiles thinks. He can’t really make himself feel indignant about it, though.

“We’ve sent a team up from our field office in Sacramento,” the man sets the two cups down on the table between Laura and Stiles, “They should be arriving in Beacon Hills soon. We’ve also called Mr. Stilinski to warn him not to leave his place of work until the team is there to protect him.”

Laura nods and the man exits the interrogation room. The smell of coffee drifts from the cups and Stiles only hesitates for a second, thinking of conspiracies about DNA and shit before Stiles decides that the FBI can have all the saliva samples and fingerprints that they want as long as he can have a sip of that sweet, sweet caffeine. He downs half the cup in one sip, burning his tongue and ignoring the bitter taste of cheap coffee.

“Okay, so I’ll stop talking about myself now,” he says, halfheartedly trying for a joke. He doesn’t look up to see if Laura smiles, so it’s kind of pointless anyways. He feels better now, knowing that his dad will be alright, “So Argent approached me and offered me a loan. He was just visiting Beacon Hills—said he traveled a lot for work. But he said he could pay off all the bills, and I could work for him until I’d made it up to him.”

Stiles huffs, but there’s no amusement there. His cup is empty now so he plays with it anxiously, ripping a chunk off the rim before he forces himself to stop and shoves his hands under his thighs.

“It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. But I was just a kid, and I was desperate. And my dad was working himself so hard and I—I was _scared_. So I agreed. I had been accepted to a college on the East coast anyways. I just deferred my enrollment, let my dad think I was flying off to college and went where Argent told me to go.”

Laura takes a sip of her own coffee, finally. She holds the cup a little too hard, but Stiles doesn’t mention it.

“Argent taught me to lie. Taught me how to become someone else. All the bills disappeared—explained away by some supposed mix-up with the insurance company. Dad was confused and upset for a while, but he let it go eventually. And I just did my job. By the time I eventually started feeling guilty enough to want to stop, Argent started threatening my dad. He knew that was the one thing that could make me do anything he wanted.”

“And what did your dad think you were doing this whole time?” Laura asks, her voice surprising Stiles. It’s the first time she’s spoken in a while.

“He thought I was at college at first, then he thought I got a job coding in New York. That’s what I was supposed to be studying—computer science. I could tell he was suspicious sometimes, especially when I told him I didn’t want to attend my own graduation. I visited home, though, whenever I had a break between jobs. And I was a good liar by then. I had a good teacher.”

Stiles pushes his Simon Hayes ID across the table with a shaky finger.

“Argent said this job was the last one—the finale, or something like that,” Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip. He taps once on the flash drive meant to go in Derek’s computer, “I was supposed to get access to bank info with this. And I—”

“Why didn’t you?” Laura interrupts harshly. Stiles’ eyes fly up to meet hers

“What?”

“Why didn’t you go through with it?”

Stiles’ mouth goes wide, floundering in search of how to respond. He thinks about the soft hairs at the back of Derek’s head, thinks about the shine in his eyes when he laughs. Laura has the same eyes, but she’s not laughing.

“I couldn’t,” Stiles responds, voice more of a croak than anything, and he hopes it’s answer enough.

Laura looks wary, like she wants to say something but isn’t sure she should. She glances fleetingly over her shoulder, but clears her throat eventually, “The Argent family and the Hale family have an old feud. No one knows how it started anymore—some business deal gone wrong decades ago.”

There’s a hard smack against the mirror from the other side, but no one comes in to interrupt. Laura doesn’t even pause at the sound.

“Everyone Gerard Argent and his daughter have targeted have been contributors to Hale Co—whether it be investors or just supporters or distant friends. To my knowledge, this is only the second time they have tried to target the Hale family directly.”

“Kate,” Stiles says, answering a question that wasn’t asked, thoughts going back to Derek’s admission on the rooftop. Kate tried and failed, so Argent sent in Stiles.

Laura nods, “It would’ve worked this time.”

She doesn’t sound doubtful about that, doesn’t even sound like she’s blaming Derek at all. Stiles knows. He knows it would’ve worked, can remember the feeling of Derek’s open mouth on his neck in the morning.

Stiles hums in acknowledgement, thinks about how Derek ignited something in his chest, something warm and nice and protective. Says, “Maybe if it was anyone but me.”

Because Stiles can’t ever imagine hurting Derek on purpose. Not anymore.

“Actually,” Laura says, eyes frustratingly knowing and trained right on Stiles, “I’m not sure anyone but you would have been able to get so close.”

And Stiles isn’t quite sure what to say after that.

-

Stiles is drunk.

He is well aware of this fact. Well aware of how sloppy and sad he probably looks right now. It’s fine, though. Laura sent him off with a few agents and set him up with a room in a Holiday Inn. No one else is here to witness his pathetic life. He’s got room service and armed guards outside the door. His dad is okay and being sent into witness protection. Lydia and Scott are okay. And he only got a slightly judgmental look when he asked one of the agents to bring him a bottle of whiskey. He’s fine.

Nobody really tells him anything and the days kind of bleed together. Stiles watches a lot of TV. Keeps the curtains closed out of some irrational fear about Argent hiring a sniper. He takes a lot of showers but never feels much cleaner afterwards. He changes his own sheets—accepts the pile of linens after they’ve been thoroughly inspected and trades them for his old dirty towels and pillowcases. No one is allowed in the room except Stiles and agents who have been cleared to watch over him.

Drunkenly, Stiles wonders why they even bother. He thinks if he were Laura he wouldn’t go through all this trouble.

He wonders about his dad too, but has to stop himself before it starts to hurt too much. He’d do anything just to be able to call—to explain and hear his dad’s voice and listen to him breathe over the line, alive and awake and okay. They removed the phone from his room so he wouldn’t try.

Stiles wonders about Derek sometimes too, but that always makes him want to drink more. It’s too painful—visceral—like a tug in his chest. Some days it feels like his stomach is made of Play-Doh and someone is smashing it into a new shape, stretching his intestines and cracking his ribs and pounding a fist against his heart until everything comes out looking like one of Stiles’ second grade art projects that his mom always used to display on her nightstand.

He doesn’t get drunk every day but he’s drunk today. There was something on TV, something that reminded Stiles of Derek. He can’t remember exactly what it was anymore, but the whiskey was right there.

He stumbles a bit, sees the floor move weirdly when he tries to take a step. He gets the hang of it, though, tripping over the carpet while he sways towards the bathroom. The door looks like it’s coming towards him too fast and he smacks a hand against it hard on his way in, doesn’t even feel it when his knuckles hit the doorknob uncomfortably.

Stiles feels kinda nauseous and thinks about if he even ate anything today. He slaps at the light switch until it turns on, then he has to blink a little blindly. His reflection is blurry—just a mess of brown hair, pale skin and the red bite of his lips. His thinks his eyes look glossy too, like two little pools of whiskey. Mmm, whiskey.

His stomach churns uncomfortably, revolting against his decision to get out of bed. Why did he even get out of bed?

His eyes find the toilet. Oh yeah.

He drops to his knees instead of whatever his original plan was. He manages to lift the seat up and feels stupidly proud of himself for that before he vomits up the entire contents of his stomach.

-

Stiles wakes up on the bathroom floor, his shoulder painfully sore from however he’d managed to fall asleep on it. His throat burns, tasting sour enough that he’s absolutely positive he threw up last night.

Dizzily, he pushes himself to sit up. He must’ve managed to flush the toilet afterwards, which is just as surprising as it is pathetic. His head throbs and his stomach lurches at the movement, but he manages to stand. While he’s in the bathroom, he might as well use it.

Afterwards, he stumbles, knocks into the door jam, but manages to make it to the bed. He feels like he’ll never not be nauseous again—too unsettled to even fall back asleep. The closed curtains are a small mercy. So is the glass of water left on his bedside table. It’s room temperature, but he takes small sips until it’s empty.

The television is still on so Stiles just closes his eyes and listens to the low sounds of the weekend weather forecast. There’s a knock at the door that makes him flinch, but it opens before he has to force himself out of bed to answer it.

Laura walks in with a tray of food in her hands. She sets it at the foot of the bed and climbs up, sits next to it with her legs folded.

“Heard you had a fun night,” she says, not bothering with pleasantries, “Scared Agent Daehler half to death. He thought you died on the bathroom floor.”

“My bad,” Stiles groans, brain fuzzily registering the smell of food and coffee. His stomach isn’t sure how to feel about it, but he sits up anyways. Laura has a mug clutched between her palms. Stiles grabs his own mug off the tray and takes a slow sip. It smells better than it feels going down.

“I’m just here to let you know that the team leading the Argent case have located and arrested both Gerard and Kate Argent, as well as all the accomplices they could find,” Laura pauses to sip her coffee. Her hair is in a half hearted ponytail and her face looks makeup free, from what Stiles can see in the dim light, “From initial interrogations, it seems like pretty much everyone working for them was scared of them. They all owed something and are more than happy to give up information as long as their debts are forgotten.”

Stiles nods, not surprised in the slightest. He grabs a piece of toast from the tray and drowns it in butter. He feels disgusting—butter dripping down his fingers—but he’s pretty sure Laura doesn’t expect any better from him at this point.

“Because everyone is in custody, we’re offering to pull our protection from whoever requests it. Lydia, Scott, Allison and Chris have already agreed. I thought I would check in with you before pulling your dad out of witness protection,” Laura picks around at a platter of fruit. She pops a few blueberries into her mouth.

“What did he say about it?” Stiles asks, already knowing the probable answer.

“I spoke to him on the phone,” Laura says around a strawberry, “He seems anxious to get back to work. He doesn’t seem to care much about the potential danger of leaving his protection.”

That sounds just like his dad, Stiles thinks with a wry twist to his lips.

“He also said he would like you to return home as soon as possible and explain to him in detail what the hell you’ve been doing these past few years. His words, not mine,” Laura adds.

Definitely his father. Stiles rips a strip of bacon in half and chews for a long time. He’s not sure what he feels. Glad about the Argents being arrested, sure. Guilty, of course. There’s something else there, though. Something mournful and grieving. It takes him too long to realize that Laura appears to be waiting for a response from him.

“If you think it’s safe then pull his protection,” Stiles says, “I haven’t ever been able to get him to take a break off work, I’m not delusional enough to think I could keep him from it now.”

“The flash drive from Chris and Allison is more than enough evidence to solidify the case. There are also several written testimonies—yours included. It’s even enough to return some of what was stolen to all the victims that we’re aware of. Not everything, but some.”

Stiles nods, thinking about what he may have stolen that can’t ever be returned. Things worth more than money.

“Good,” he says, voice hoarse. He feels unsteady, like he’s miles above the ground on a tightrope, one wrong step from plummeting, “So you’re pulling my protection too, right? Will I be charged as an accomplice or something else? I’m not really sure how it works when you spill the beans on your evil boss.”

Laura goes still, almost motionless. She stares at him for a very long time with a look on her face that Stiles can’t decipher. Finally, she says in a low voice, “The Hale family does not wish to press charges against you. You’re free to go and an agent will contact you if they need anything else.”

Stiles feels like he misheard that, “What do you mean the Hale family doesn’t wanna press charges?”

Laura’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again before she says, “The Hale family feels the real people responsible have already been identified and arrested.”

“What about all the people I stole from who weren’t part of the _Hale family_?” he says the last part mockingly, trying to get her to stop sounding like she’s reading from a script or something.

“They would not like to press charges,” Laura repeats evenly.

“But—” Stiles stops himself, not really sure why he’s trying to argue. He was positive he’d be locked up right alongside Kate and Gerard. And in some guilty, masochistic side of his brain, he’d been accepting and eager to face punishment for his actions. He had thought it might even make Derek happy—to see everyone who had hurt him sent behind bars.

 _The Hale family_ doesn’t want that, though. Stiles can’t help but wonder how much of that is Derek and how much of that is Laura, because it couldn’t possibly be the remainder of the family, who probably know him only as Simon—the guy who waltzed in and tried to steal everything.

In a strange, compulsive flare of hope that feels misplaced alongside his hangover, Stiles says, “Could I—”

He stops himself again, suddenly ashamed of how he’d almost said _could I talk to Derek_ as if Derek would ever want to speak to him again.

“How’s Derek doing?” he asks instead, ignoring how his voice cracks.

Laura’s face falls into a mask, losing whatever little emotion it had previously held. She stands from the bed, abandoning her half-finished coffee, “If you’d like to check out of your room today, you’ll need to do that soon.”

She leaves without waiting for a response. Stiles supposes that’s enough of an answer to his question.

-

**Beacon Hills, California**

Being back home is weird.

As soon as he got out of the taxi and took two steps up the front porch, his dad yanked the door open and had him enveloped in a hug. Stiles will admit that he got a little choked up—the cumulative stress from everything with the Argents and the FBI and just not seeing his dad for so long building into a hot burn behind his eyes.

Of course, that was when his dad pulled back, his face flushed but eyes steely, and demanded an explanation. He was furious, and they sat in the living room for hours, just talking in circles and trying to remedy wherever they went wrong.

“I feel like I don’t know you anymore,” Stiles’ dad had said on that first night, tumbler of whiskey clenched in his hand. Stiles was avoiding whiskey for a while, plus he didn’t think he deserved the buffer that alcohol would serve from the pain and guilt rolling around inside him.

“I think I don’t really know who I am anymore either,” Stiles had responded, as honest as he could be. It was true. After so long wearing masks, he wasn’t sure how to be just Stiles again.

After that it got a little easier. Things were still tense, still awkward between Stiles and his dad. Sometimes his dad got this look in his eyes—wary, like he was scared of what Stiles was capable of.

It was lighter, though, walking around with just truth between them. Stiles felt the weight of all his lies lift the slightest bit.

Stiles’ dad made him get a job— _a real job_ , he had said—so Stiles started bagging groceries at the supermarket. There wasn’t much he wanted to do with his life. He could barely remember what he used to do for fun before everything happened, could barely feel the passion he once held for computers or comics or dumb movies.

And despite feeling more comfortable than he has in a long time, Stiles misses a lot. He misses Scott and his easy friendship. He misses Lydia and how she never let him get away with anything. He even misses Deaton and his cryptic smiles. He misses being told exactly what to do, misses being able to run away from things without consequence.

Stiles doesn’t let himself think about it, but he misses Derek too.

It’s a few months before Stiles gets a Facebook friend request from Scott. The Facebook is a new thing. Stiles hasn’t existed digitally ever since Argent wiped him from the internet completely before his first mission. It felt good, to reclaim his identity a bit and make a new account. Stiles messages his new cell phone number as soon as he accepts the request and gets an incoming call within seconds.

“You sound good,” he tells Scott, leaning against the wall to stare out one of the windows in his living room. It looks like rain today.

“Thanks bro,” Scott says with a smile in his voice, “You sound good too. I’m—I’m glad everything worked out. And that it’s done now.”

“Me too,” Stiles says, trying not to feel like a liar. He lets Scott tell him about Montana, about Chris’ cousin’s family ranch he’s living on with Allison. He listens to stories about herding cattle and chasing loose chickens and sunsets over gorgeous mountains. Stiles can’t feel anything but happy for Scott. He doesn’t say much about himself, but he feels better after the call—feels more centered, more himself, even as he watches the street outside turn slick and wet with rain.

-

Lydia calls him on FaceTime not a week later.

It’s the middle of the night when the phone rings, but Stiles is up anyways. It’s an unknown number and when her face pops up after he swipes the screen to answer, Stiles isn’t even surprised. He doesn’t bother asking how she got his number. Lydia is kinda omnipotent like that sometimes.

She looks gorgeous as usual, even pixelated on the screen. She’s outside in what looks like a park, the sun shining down on her until her hair glows red-orange-gold.

“What—where the hell are you?” Stiles asks, cranky that he looks like such a dweeb in his wrinkled pajama pants, “Is it day time?”

“I’m in Paris,” she says, like he’s a complete idiot.

Stiles lets himself gape, then, “Yeah, okay, that makes sense actually.”

“I’m only here for the rest of the month, then the new term starts at Cambridge,” her voice cuts out and skips slightly.

“You’re studying at Cambridge?” Stiles scrubs self-consciously at his messy hair, wondering if he should be wrangling cows or studying in other countries instead of bagging broccoli in his hometown.

“Just for my masters. I already got my bachelors online during…” she trails off, but Stiles more than understands what she’s trying to say. It feels good to see her face, to let her talk at him and roll her eyes like she always used to. Stiles missed her a lot, and he’s grateful that she hasn’t changed—grateful for the proof that he got to know the real her, even when she had been playing a part for most of the time.

“What are you doing?” she asks eventually.

“What do you mean,” Stiles props the phone up at a better angle, “I’m in bed.”

“No, Stiles,” she says a little quieter, a little more serious, “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t say anything. He knows exactly what she’s asking, no matter how much he pretends like he doesn’t.

“You could do anything,” she says in that tone she uses sometimes, “Now more than ever.”

Behind her on screen, an old man walks by with a dog. A little boy holds on to his mother in one hand and an ice cream cone in the other. A group of teenage girls are laughing, looking down at their phones. Stiles sighs deep and listens for a moment to his dad snoring from down the hall.

“Yeah,” he says pointlessly.

Lydia huffs impatiently, “Have you talked to him?”

Stiles bites his tongue so hard he tastes metal, “Who, Deaton? Nope, he vanished. Probably far, far away by now.”

Lydia looks disapproving, frowning like she knows exactly what Stiles is up to and does not appreciate him avoiding the question. She lets him get away with it, though, at least for now, “If he’s smart, he’ll be on a beach somewhere sipping piña coladas.”

Stiles knows that’s not the last time she’ll question him, but he’s thankful for the temporary diversion. They talk until Stiles’ eyes go heavy with exhaustion. He’s got work in the morning, but he can’t bring himself to say goodbye.

They part eventually with a sleepy, “Bye, Lyds” and a firm, “Bye, Stiles. Think about what I said.”

When the screen goes dark again, all Stiles can see in it is his own reflection. It takes everything he has in him not to throw the phone against the wall.

-

“So, I’ve been thinking.”

Stiles pauses for a moment, wondering if there’s a better way to say this than just blurting it out in typical Stiles-fashion.

“Lord help us all,” his dad says around a mouthful of pizza. Stiles throws a balled-up greasy napkin at him. The only reason the man is allowed pizza right now is because Stiles was too lazy to argue when he walked through the door with the delicious smelling box in hand, he should be more grateful.

“I’ve been thinking about college,” Stiles tries again. That at least grants him with a response his dad must chew and swallow before getting out.

“Have you,” he says finally. It’s not a question.

“Yeah,” Stiles tries to gauge his dad’s mood, but eventually just gives up and rambles, “I’m not sure what I’d study yet—I think that’s my main problem. I just don’t know what I’m interested in. I have no idea what I wanna do for the rest of my life. I figure my first year I can just take a ton of classes—see what I like, you know?”

His dad hums and takes another bite, apparently more than happy to let Stiles do the talking now.

“And I know you probably don’t trust me or you want me to stay in Beacon Hills for a while after how badly I messed up, but I just—I don’t know, Dad. I feel like I was robbed of the experience and I used to _like_ school. I was _good_ at it. I don’t know what I’m even doing anymore and I wanna find something that _Stiles Stilinski_ is interested in, not some other guy who I’m supposed to be pretending to be.”

“Stiles,” his dad says gently, actually setting down his half-finished slice like he wants Stiles to pay attention, “First off, I’m not gonna lie to you. You made a mistake. A bad, illegal mistake and you’re lucky you’re not in prison right now. I’m not happy with you about that, and I’ll always be disappointed in some of the choices you made.”

The words sting, but they’re honest. Stiles needs to hear them, probably. To remind him to be better from now on.

“But,” his dad continues, “I love you. So much that it hurts me sometimes. And I want you to be happy. I would never keep you here if you didn’t want to be here. And if you want to go to college, then I think you should.”

Stiles picks at a piece of pepperoni idly, trying to avoid eye contact, “I’ve been looking at a few local places. But also, um. I really like Chicago. Or New York City.”

He sees his dad nod in his peripheral, gaze trained steadily on Stiles but staying silent. They don’t talk about it much anymore—New York and Hale Co and everything that happened there. Stiles isn’t sure how much his dad even knows about Derek. He’s a smart man, though, he’s probably got some ideas. He doesn’t outwardly express any kind of opinion like Stiles maybe wants him to, doesn’t warn him against New York or make a frowny face or pinch his lips or _anything_.

Instead, he just says “okay,” taking another bite and holding up the most neutral expression Stiles has ever seen. It’s probably a sheriff trick, meant to hide his emotions so he doesn’t influence whoever he’s interrogating or whatever.

It probably works too, because Stiles feels just as conflicted as he did before the conversation started and he accidently forfeits the last slice to his dad.

-

It’s six months after Stiles’ return to Beacon Hills when the dull life he’d carefully crafted gets turned on its head.

He’s at work—manning the register while Linda takes her smoke break. It’s a Tuesday or a Wednesday, he’s not even sure anymore, and it’s nearing that time at the end of his shift when the customers dwindle down to almost nothing and the minutes drag on torturously.

He’s thinking about what he should make for dinner tonight while he hums a song he can’t remember the name of and contemplates the gossip magazines on the rack nearby. Apparently some supermodel dissed some actress online and now they have a big feud going on or something. Stiles can’t see the whole cover—the page is half blocked by another magazine plastered with the face some prince from another country.

He barely even registers the customer who approaches, doesn’t even look up, just says an absent “hello, how are you,” and scans the single pack of gum that was placed on the conveyor belt.

“Do you have a loyalty card with us?” he asks, finally looking at the customer and feeling his entire body freeze in shock, heart stuttering too fast for his now-motionless limbs. He vaguely wants to pinch himself, thinking that there is no way that Derek Hale is actually standing in front of him right now.

Stiles isn’t sure what his face is doing. His eyes feel kinda wide, and he’s pretty sure his mouth is hanging open unattractively. Derek’s expression is unreadable, but he’s looking at Stiles like he’s not sure how to look anywhere else. He’s wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans—dressed less like a CEO and more like the man Stiles used to cuddle with on the couch.

“No,” Derek answers belatedly, voice rough enough that Stiles feels it deep in his gut.

Stiles licks his lips, scratches his nose until he realizes his hands are shaking horribly, and then lets his eyes drop to stare at the price scanner very hard. On autopilot, he says, “Would you like to open one? You can save 10% on your next purchase.”

There’s a long silence in which Stiles is too chickenshit to even glance back up at Derek. He can’t really even inhale enough to fill his lungs all the way, but he doesn’t want to start hyperventilating in front of Derek so he just forces his lungs to expand until they get the hang of it themselves again.

“Maybe another time,” Derek says eventually. A woman with a very full shopping cart gets in line behind him. From the corner of Stiles’ eye, he sees Derek peek at her over his shoulder and then lean in a little closer, “Can we talk?”

Stiles does look up then, more surprised than anything. Derek’s face is serious, though, and Stiles feels his belly clench up in a nervous knot.

“I get off in fifteen,” he says, studying the way Derek’s eyes shine blue-green under the fluorescent lights. From this close, Stiles can smell him, all musk and expensive cologne. He tries to stop himself from inhaling too obviously. He’s missed Derek’s _scent_ , how fucking sad is that.

“I’ll wait outside,” Derek nods, eyes flitting all over Stiles’ face. He blindly digs into his pocket, says, “Keep the change.”

A twenty-dollar bill is pressed into Stiles’ clammy hand and then Derek slips away towards the exit. He didn’t even take his pack of gum.

-

The remainder of Stiles’ shift passes in a blur. He spends the entire time in a weird limbo where his mind feels millions of miles away from his body. By the time he is finally able to leave, he finds Derek sitting at a bench facing the parking lot, looking out at seemingly nothing.

Stiles is almost surprised to find him there. He half convinced himself that he imagined the whole thing and then also managed to have a freak-out thinking that Derek might just leave without talking to him or something.

Stiles sit on the bench next to him. Derek doesn’t flinch or even look at Stiles, but his shoulders do this thing once he realizes Stiles is there, hunching up a little. For a while, they just sit and watch a few cars go by.

“How’d you find me?” Stiles asks after he can’t physically make himself be quiet anymore.

“I actually just asked the first person I came across,” Derek shrugs, shoulder accidently hitting Stiles’ with the movement, “This is an impressively small town.”

“But you knew I was in Beacon Hills?”

Derek takes a long, deep breath, “I was there when you were talking to Laura. I figured you’d come here.”

Stiles nods, then keeps nodding even after he probably should’ve stopped. His fingers twitch and he realizes he’s holding a grocery bag filled with candy bars and Derek’s pack of gum. He hands the bag over, watching Derek’s eyebrows furrow familiarly when he glances inside.

“You forgot your gum,” Stiles explains, “Also if you’re gonna just throw twenties at me, I figured you should at least get something for it.”

Derek rifles through the bag noisily.

“Don’t worry. I remembered your Almond Joy, you weirdo,” Stiles says before he can think to filter his words. He bites his bottom lip hard, wondering if it’s a bad time to bring up how he still knows Derek’s favorite candy bar. Derek pulls out said candy bar, then hands Stiles a pack of Reese’s like he wants to show that he still knows Stiles’ favorite too.

They eat for a bit, looking out into the parking lot more than at each other. Stiles can’t help but wonder about why Derek came here, why he might have felt the need to fly across the country in the middle of the week and find Stiles. Probably irrationally, Stiles worries that Derek just wanted the chance to yell at Stiles, to get everything off his chest now that he’s heard the whole story, now that the truth is all out there.

“I just—I’m not sure why—” Stiles stutters, too many things he wants to say and mouth too slow to get them all out. Stiles sighs, clenches the candy wrapper in a fist and turns his body on the bench to better face Derek. His profile is stark against the evening sky, stubble lining his jaw and softening it slightly. He’s still just as gorgeous as Stiles remembers, and when he turns toward Stiles until they lock eyes there is a feeling like a million lit matchsticks under Stiles’ skin. For a moment, Stiles cannot even believe that he was ever allowed to have this. Even if he ruined it all in the end, he feels utterly undeserving and in awe of the man next to him. Stiles thinks about how he was right to tell Derek he loved him, thinks about how he meant every word.

Somehow, Stiles’ thoughts translate easier now that he’s looking right at Derek’s face, “I don’t know why you came here, but before you say anything. I just. I want to tell you that I am so sorry, Derek. For lying. And hurting you. I never said sorry before, and I probably should have, and it’s probably too late but just, ugh. You didn’t deserve any of what I put you through and I shouldn’t have been too terrified to tell you the truth. I didn’t want to lose you and then I lost you anyways. Before anything else, I just want you to know I’m sorry.”

Derek’s eyes stay on Stiles’ for a few long breaths. Then, he says, “Okay.”

It’s not forgiveness, but Stiles wasn’t expecting any of that. It means more that Derek heard his apology. Listened and stayed on the bench even after Stiles finished saying it all.

“I came here for…something. Closure, or a conversation. I don’t know,” Derek’s voice trails off, eyebrows dropping into a low furrow, “I wanted to talk to you as yourself. Not a character. And I wanted to make sure you knew that just because I was in on it the whole time doesn’t mean…”

Derek sighs in frustration, like he can’t get the words out.

After a beat, he continues, “I wanted to let you know that it was real for me. And I’m sorry if I ever made you believe it wasn’t.”

Stiles’ throat clenches, “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know,” Derek answers quickly, with a sharp bite in his voice. His eyes flash, but little by little he seems to soften, “For a long time I was so angry at Laura. For making me go along with everything, for putting me in that position. And at you too, of course. But I think more than anyone, I was mad at myself. For falling for it even when I knew it was all a performance.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I fell for it too.”

Derek turns to watch a woman back her car into a parking spot, his lips pulling into a bitter little smile, “I’m not sure that makes me feel better, actually.”

There’s a lot Stiles wants to say. Mostly about how it was real for him too. And how he stopped lying to Derek a long time ago, even if most of the small truths came out accidently. How he misses the plant in the office and the drives through rush hour traffic and the way Derek’s hands look—typing or curling up or reaching for Stiles. There’s a lot Stiles wants to say about how he can’t bring himself to order hazelnut lattes anymore and how he’s tried to make Derek’s stir fry recipe and he can never quite get it right and how he misses just having a body curled around his, a place where he feels safe and tangible and unafraid.

Stiles stays quiet, and when Derek speaks again, it feels lighter, “So, _Stiles_ , huh?”

Stiles laughs, is helpless to stop himself. It comes out sounding choked, mostly because he isn’t sure he’s allowed to laugh right now. Hitching one side of his mouth into a smirk and twitching his nose charmingly, Stiles sing-songs, “That is my name, don’t wear it out.”

Derek is looking at him again and his eyes go a little unguarded for a second, lips parting enough that Stiles gets a peek at the row of teeth behind them. Almost in wonder, he says, “You are just like him.”

Stiles doesn’t understand what Derek means until he does, and then he feels it like a punch to the gut. He wonders if Derek has always drawn a sharp line separating _Simon_ and _Stiles_ in his mind and he wonders just how inappropriate it would be for Stiles to jump up and stand right on this bench, stomp his foot like a child and scream _I am him_ so loud the air echoes with it.

Instead Stiles just tries his best not to let his face crumple. He gnaws at the inside of his cheek and squints out at the distance. Over the next few blocks of buildings, he can see the lush tops of trees, the beginning of the preserve.

“So what does Stiles do?” Derek asks softly, seeming to pick up on whatever vibes Stiles is sending out there and trying to recover, lead them to a better topic of conversation.

“Currently,” Stiles says on a breath, “Bagging groceries. But I’ve been looking into college. I like big cities. And winters. I’ve been thinking Chicago. Or New York.”

“I thought you didn’t like New York.”

“It grew on me, I think,” Stiles says and resolutely does not look over at Derek.

There’s a stretch of silence, like maybe Derek is waiting for Stiles to look over and see his expression or something, but nope. Not gonna happen. The cars in the parking lot are looking very interesting today.

“What would you study?” Derek asks eventually, sounding suspiciously like he’s smiling, or trying not to.

“Well, I used to want to study computer science. And I think I’d still be into that. But I was also thinking maybe something like cybersecurity? Like protecting data and stuff… I don’t know though,” Stiles feels silly saying all of this aloud.

“I think you’d be good at that,” is what Derek responds with. When Stiles meets his eyes, he looks genuine, like he means it.

“Do you want to come over for dinner?” Stiles says, mouth moving before his brain can catch up.

Derek’s mouth opens and hangs there until he says, “I have to catch my flight back to New York in four hours.”

“That’s plenty of time for taco Tuesday,” Stiles bounces his knee, trying not to seem like he’s begging.

“It’s Wednesday,” Derek eyebrows are unimpressed, but there’s a small quirk to his mouth.

“I always knew you were a stickler for the rules,” Stiles says, nearly vibrating out of his skin with happiness when Derek stands from the bench and waits for him to lead the way.

-

Stiles drives Derek back to his house, overwhelmed at the sight of him in the passenger seat of the Jeep. It feels a little like a dream, like everything he’s been wishing for the past six months even though he knew there was no hope of it happening. Or, well he thought there was no hope, at least.

Stiles points out random places in Beacon Hills on their drive—the high school and the best diner and the fountain at the park that him and his mom used to toss pennies into. Derek is quiet, more like he was when him and Stiles first met. He seems content to listen to the stories, though, eyes bright and curious and so beautiful it aches.

Cooking in the Stilinski kitchen is not like cooking at Derek’s house used to be. They don’t touch. And Stiles flits around a lot, trying to distract from the way his hands are trembling with nerves. He shoos Derek away, insisting that guests didn’t need to do any work. Instead, Derek spends a long time looking at all the photographs on the walls, sipping at a glass of iced tea and studying the home like he’s trying to soak up every bit of it.

Stiles can relate, kind of. He’s trying to soak up every bit of Derek’s presence while he can.

Stiles’ dad is working late tonight, which is probably a blessing. Stiles doesn’t want to even think about how totally awkward that conversation would be. Stiles wants Derek to meet his dad, but not yet. Not when things feel so fragile between them, just barely rebuilt after everything had been completely destroyed.

They don’t talk much while they eat, just sit across from each other at the dining room table. It’s the same table with a deep scratch dug into the wood from when Stiles was in grade school, near-tears while trying to finish his math homework and much more interested in how far he could get his pen to go into the table’s surface. Stiles tells the story to Derek, then he talks about how as punishment, his dad took away any writing utensil that wasn’t a crayon for the next two weeks. He still has old homework sets somewhere, all completed in colorful wax.

Every time Stiles tells a story, Derek’s shoulders get a little more relaxed. So Stiles talks, endlessly, whenever he thinks of something Derek hasn’t heard yet.

“My mom used to have so many houseplants,” Stiles says, mouth full of guacamole, “After she died, my dad and I both forgot to water them. They all died and it was worse, somehow. Like we lost her all over again.”

Derek bites into a taco, smearing sour cream over the corner of his mouth. He dabs at it and misses some so Stiles hands him a napkin, aggravated with how badly he wants to wipe it away himself like a perfect romcom moment.

“There was one cactus that survived, I think,” Stiles watches Derek wipe his mouth clean, “But then we watered it too much and it ended up dying too.”

“So you haven’t always been so rigorous with caring for plants?” Derek asks, voice a little hoarse from how long it’s been since he’s spoken. His eyes are sparkling with mirth, teasing.

“I worked in a flower shop once. On one of my jobs. I learned a lot there, actually,” Stiles says, realizing too late that Derek probably doesn’t want to hear about the time Stiles spent scamming people out of all their savings.

Derek doesn’t look troubled, though. He just watches Stiles like he has been this whole time, gaze hard and steady and interested. Stiles likes it, the weight of his eyes. He missed having Derek’s attention on him, missed sitting close enough to touch, even if they don’t.

Derek insists on helping Stiles wash up, no matter how much Stiles tries to get him to go sit on the couch or something. They load the dishwasher as a team, rinsing and handing off plates so fluidly it’s like they’re one mind in two bodies. Derek stands close enough that Stiles can feel the warmth of him along his side. It’s an effort, Stiles thinks, not to lean into him like he so badly wants to.

Stiles packs up the leftovers but leaves them out for when his dad gets home. When he runs out of things to do to occupy his hands, he just leans back against the kitchen counter and tries not to stare at Derek too obviously. Apparently Derek doesn’t feel the same hesitation—openly watching Stiles from his own spot across the kitchen. He’s already called a cab and Stiles feels untethered now. Unsure about this reborn thing between them and terrified of what will come.

Derek’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

“My cab’s here,” he says quietly, scratching at the stubble on his cheek. He digs into his back pocket and steps closer, close enough to touch. He tugs at Stiles’ limp hand and presses a small white card against his palm. _Hale Advertising Company_ , it reads in neat black font. Below is Derek’s name, an email address and a phone number. Derek keeps hold of Stiles’ hand, presses against the cardstock like he’s scared Stiles will drop it, “You should call me.”

The moment seems to stretch on endlessly, just the two of them in the middle of the kitchen, hands touching. Stiles’ orbit shifts, refocusing on the warm skin and openness of Derek’s eyes. Stiles thinks maybe he smiles. Or maybe he does something more honest, like sighs out every unnecessary thing he’s held captive for too long. Either way, Derek looks relieved. He rubs his thumb just once over whatever part of Stiles he can reach, then he turns, grabs the last Almond Joy from the pile of candy bars dumped on the counter and lets himself out the front door.

Stiles squeezes his hand tight around the business card, says “I will” to the empty room like a promise.


End file.
